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OP 

IRVING'S WORKS 

I— The Sketch-Book. Two vols. 
II— Tai.es of a Traveller. Two vols. 
Ill— Wolfert's Roost. One vol. 
IV— Knickerbocker's New York. Two vols. 
V— Bracebridge Hall. Two vols. 
VI— The Alhambra. Two vols. 
VII— Crayon Miscellany. One vol. 
*#* Complete in 12 volumes. 




Ql- 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 

GEORGE P. PUTNAM 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 

New York 



EXCHANGE 

JUi. 12 1944 
Serial Rerorr' Division 

Th£"' ' J'ii 
Copy -.•• _ 



Ube Viniciterboclier press, Dew ISorti 




CONTENTS. 



Christmas Kve i 

Christmas Day .20 

The Christmas Dinner 42 

I^ONDON Antiquities 65 

I^iTTLE Britain 75 

Stratford-on-Avon 99 

Traits of Indian Character 130 

Philip of Pokanoket 149 

John Bull 178 

The Pride of the Village ...... 197 

The Angler 212 

The I^egend of Sleepy Hollow . . . .227 

I^'P)nvoy 281 

Appendix . , , 285 



o 



^ 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



CHRISTMAS nYK 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight. 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets. 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but ex- 
tremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly- 
over the frozen ground ; the post-boy smacked 
his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. ** He knows where 
he is going," said my companion, laughing, 
*' and is eager to arrive in time for some of the 
merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee 
of the old school, and prides himself upon keep- 
ing up something of old English hospitality. 
He is a tolerable specimen of what you will 
rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old 



XLbc SF^etcbs=JSook 



English country-gentleman ; for our men of for- 
tune spend so much of their time in town, and 
fashion is carried so much into the country, 
that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient 
rural life are almost polished away. My fa- 
ther, however, from early years, took honest 
Peacham ^ for his text-book, instead of Chester- 
field ; he determined in his own mind that there 
was no condition more truly honorable and 
available than that of a country-gentleman on 
his paternal lands, and therefore passes the 
whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenu- 
ous advocate for the revival of the old rural 
games and holiday observances, and is deeply 
read in the writers, ancient and modern, who 
have treated on the subject. Indeed his favorite 
range of reading is among the authors who 
flourished at least two centuries since ; who, 
he insists, wrote and thought more like true 
Bnglishmen than any of their successors. He 
even regrets sometimes that he had not been 
bom a few centuries earlier, when England was 
itself, and had its peculiar manners and cus- 
toms. As he lives at some distance from the 
main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that 
most enviable of all blessings to an English- 
man, an opportunity of indulging the bent of 

* Pfacham's "Complete Gentleman," 1622, 



Cbrietmas Eve 



his own humor without molestation. Being 
representative of the oldest family in the neigh- 
borhood, and a great part of the peasantry be- 
ing his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, 
in general, is known simply by the appellatio: 
of *The Squire,' a title which has been ac- 
corded to the head of the family since time im- 
memorial. I think it best to give you these 
hints about my worthy old father, to prepare 
you for any eccentricities that might otherwise 
appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall 
of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at 
the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old 
style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square 
columns that supported the gate were sur- 
mounted by the family crest. Close adjoining 
was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir- 
trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which 
resounded through the still frosty air, and was 
answered by the distant barking of dogs, with 
which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 
An old woman immediately appeared at the 
gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, 
I had a full view of a little primitive dame, 
dressed very much in the antique taste, with a 
neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver 



Zbc snetcb=JSook 



hair peeping from under a cap of snowy white- 
ness. She came courtesying forth, with many 
expressions of simple joy at seeing her young 
master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' 
hall ; they could not do without him, as he was 
the best hand at a song and story in the house- 
hold. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and 
walk through the park to the hall, which was 
at no great distance, while the chaise should 
follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of 
which the moon glittered, as she rolled through 
the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn 
beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of 
snow, which here and there sparkled as the 
moonbeams caught a frosty crystal ; and at a 
distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor, 
stealing up from the low grounds, and threaten- 
ing gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with trans- 
port. ^'How often," said he, ''have I scam- 
pered up this avenue, on returning home on 
school vacations ! How often have I played 
under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree 
of filial reverence for them, as we look, up to 
those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
father was always scrupulous in exacting our 



Cbri6tma6 jBvc 



holidays, and having us around him on family 
festivals. He used to direct and superintend 
our games with the strictness that some parents 
do the studies of their children. He was very 
particular that we should play the old English 
games according to their original form ; and 
consulted old books for precedent and authority 
for every ^ merrie disport ' ; yet I assure you 
there never was pedantry so delightful. It was 
the policy of the good old gentleman to make 
his children feel that home was the happiest 
place in the world ; and I value this delicious 
home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a 
parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop 
of dogs of all sorts and sizes, ** mongrel, puppy, 
whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree," 
that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell 
and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, 
open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me !" 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of 
his voice the bark was changed into a yelp of 
delight, and in a moment he was surrounded 
and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old famr 



Zbc S?^etcb=JSooft 



ily mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and 
partly lit up by the cool moonshine. It was 
an irregular building, of some magnitude, and 
seemed to be of the architecture of different 
periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, 
with hea\^ stone-shafted bow- windows jutting 
out and overrun with ivy, from among the 
foliage of which the small diamond-shaped 
panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. 
The rest of the house was in the French taste of 
Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his 
ancestors, who returned with that monarch at 
the Restoration. The grounds about the house 
were laid out in the old formal manner of 
artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised 
terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, orna- 
mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a 
jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, 
was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete 
finery in all its original state. He admired this 
fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnifi- 
cence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good 
old family style. The boasted imitation of na- 
ture in modern gardening had sprung up with 
modern republican notions, but did not suit a 
monarchical government ; it smacked of the 
levelling system. I could not help smiling at 
this introduction of politics into gardening. 



Cbvietmne iBvc 



thougli I expressed some apprehension that I 
should find the old gentleman rather intolerant 
in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that 
it was almost the only instance in which he had 
ever heard his father meddle with politics, and 
he believed that he had got this notion from a 
member of Parliament who once passed a few 
weeks with him. The squire was glad of any 
argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and 
formal terraces, which had been occasionally 
attacked by modern landscape-gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the 
sound of music, and now and then a burst of 
laughter, from one end of the building. This, 
Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser- 
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was 
permitted, and even encouraged by the squire, 
throughout the twelve days of Christmas, pro- 
vided every thing was done conformably to 
ancient usage. Here were kept up the old 
games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, 
hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, 
and snap-dragon ; the Yule-clog and Christmas 
candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, 
with its white berries, hung up, to the immi- 
nent peril of all the pretty housemaids.* 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and 
kitchens at Christmas ; and the young men have the 
privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each 
time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked, the privilege ceases. 



^be S\{ctcb^3Boo\{ 



So intent were the servants upon their sports 
that we had to ring repeatedly before we could 
make ourselves heard. On our arrival being 
announced, the squire came out to receive us, 
accompanied by his two other sons : one a 
young officer in the army, home on leave of 
absence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the 
university. The squire was a fine, healthy- 
looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling 
lightly round an open, florid countenance, in 
which the physiognomist, with the advantage, 
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benev- 
olence. 

The family meeting was warm and affection- 
ate ; as the evening was far advanced, the squire 
would not permit us to change our travelling 
dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
which was assembled in a large old-fashioned 
hall. It was composed of different branches of 
a numerous family connection, where there 
were the usual proportion of old uncles and 
aunts, comfortable married dames, superannu- 
ated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half- 
fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
school hoydens. They were variously occupied : 
some at a round game of cards ; others convers- 
ing around the fireplace ; at one end of the hall 
was a group of young folks, some nearly grown 



ittifa 



Cbristmaa }Bvc 



up, others of a more tender and budding age, 
fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro- 
fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and 
tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of 
a troop of little fairy beings, who, having 
frolicked through a happy day, had been car- 
ried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on 
between young Bracebridge and his relatives, I 
had time to scan the apartment. I have called 
it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old 
times, and the squire had evidently endeavored 
to restore it to something of its primitive state. 
Over the heavy projecting fireplace was sus- 
pended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing 
by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung 
a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an 
enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the 
wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to 
suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the 
corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, 
fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. 
The furniture was of the cumbrous workman- 
ship of former days, though some articles of 
modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the 
whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and 
hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide 



io XLbc Sftetcbs:JBoolft 

overwhelming fireplace, to make way for a fire 
of wood, in the midst of which was an enor- 
mous log glowing and blazing, and sending 
forth a vast volume of light and heat : this I 
understood was the Yule-clog, which the squire 
was particular in having brought in and il- 
lumined on a Christmas eve, according to an- 
cient customs."^ 

It was really delightful to see the old squire 
seated in his hereditary elbow-chair, by the 
hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking 
around him like the sun of a system, beaming 
warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 

* The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the 
root of a tree, brought into the house with great cere- 
mony, on Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted 
with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there 
was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- 
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in 
the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of 
the great wood-fire. The Yule-clog was to burn all 
night ; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill-luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : 

" Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes. 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free. 
And drink to your hearts' desiring." 

The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and 
kitchens in England, particularly in the north, and 
there are several superstitions connected with it among 
the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house 
while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is con- 
sidered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the 
Yule-clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
Christmas fire. 



Cbrietmaa }Eve ti 

very dog tliat lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would 
look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail 
against the floor, and stretch himself again to 
sleep, confident of kindness and protection. 
There is an emanation from the heart in genu- 
ine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at 
once at his ease. I had not been seated many 
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy 
old cavalier, before I found myself as much at 
home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our ar- 
rival. It was served up in a spacious oaken 
chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, 
and around which were several family portraits 
decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the ac- 
customed lights, two great wax tapers, called 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were 
placed on a highly polished beaufet among the 
family plate. The table was abundantly spread 
with substantial fare ; but the squire made his 
supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat-cakes 
boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a stand- 
ing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced- 
pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and finding him 
to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not 
be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him 



^be Sketcb=3Booft 



with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet 
an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly pro- 
moted by the humors of an eccentric personage 
whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with 
the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He 
was a tight brisk little man, with the air of 
an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 
like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted 
with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom 
on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had 
an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a 
drollery and lurking waggery of expression that 
was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of 
the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and 
innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite 
merriment by harping upon old themes ; which, 
unfortunately, my ignorance of the family 
chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It 
seemed to be his great delight during supper to 
keep a young girl next him in a continual 
agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of 
the reproving looks of her mother, who sat 
opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the 
younger part of the company, who laughed at 
every thing he said or did, and at every turn of 
his countenance ; I could not wonder at it ; for 
he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch 



Cbrt0tma0 Eve 13 

and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, 
with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket- 
handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a 
ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were 
ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank 
Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a 
small independent income, which, by careful 
management, was sufficient for all his wants. 
He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting 
one branch, and sometimes another quite re- 
mote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in 
England. He had a chirping buoyant disposi- 
tion, always enjoying the present moment; and 
his frequent change of scene and company pre- 
vented his acquiring those rusty unaccommo- 
dating habits, with which old bachelors are so 
uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, 
history, and intermarriages of the whole house 
of Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite 
with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the 
elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among 
whom he was habitually considered rather a 
young fellow, and he was master of the revels 
among the children ; so that there was not a 
more popular being in the sphere in which he 



14 ^bc Sfietcb:sJ8ook 

moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late 
years, lie had resided almost entirely with the 
squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping 
with his humor in respect to old times, and by 
having a scrap of an old song to suit every oc- 
casion. We had presently a specimen of his 
last-mentioned talent ; for no sooner was supper 
removed, and spiced wines and other beverages 
peculiar to the season introduced, than Master 
Simon was called on for a good old Christmas 
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and 
then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice 
that was by no means bad, excepting that it 
ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes 
of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old 
ditty. 

" Now Christmas is come, 

lyCt us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

lyCt us make them such cheer 
As will keep out the wind and the weather,'* etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, 
and an old harper was summoned from the ser- 
vants' hall, where he had been strumming all 
the evening, and to all appearance comforting 
himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. 
He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the 



Cbttetmas iBvc ig 

establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident 
of the village, was often er to be found in the 
squire's kitchen than his own home, the old 
gentleman being fond of the sound of *' harp in 
hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was 
a merry one ; some of the older folks joined in 
it, and the squire himself figured down several 
couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed 
he had danced at ever^^ Christmas for nearly half 
a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a 
kind of connecting link between the old times 
and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated 
in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently 
piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeav- 
oring to gain credit by the heel and toe, riga- 
doon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a 
little romping girl from boarding-school, who, 
by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on 
the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts 
at elegance : — ^such are the ill-assorted matches 
to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led 
out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the 
rogue played a thousand little knaveries with 
impunity ; he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; 



i6 tTbe SketcbssJBooft 

yet, like all madcap youngsters, lie was a uni- 
versal favorite among the women. The most 
interesting couple in the dance was the young 
officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful 
blushing girl of seventeen. From several sly 
glances which I had noticed in the course of 
the evening, I suspected there was a little kind- 
ness growing up between them, and, indeed, 
the young soldier was just the hero to captivate 
a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand- 
some, and, like most young British officers of late 
years, had picked up various small accomplish- 
ments on the Continent ; — he could talk French 
and Italian, draw landscapes, sing very tolera- 
bly, dance divinely ; but, above all, he had 
been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl of 
seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and per- 
fection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught 
up a guitar, and, lolling against the old marble 
fireplace, in an attitude which I am half in- 
clined to suspect was studied, began the little 
French air of the Troubadour. The squire, 
however, exclaimed against having any thing 
on Christmas eve but good old Fnglish, upon 
which the young minstrel, casting up his ^ye 
for a moment, as if in an effi)rt of meinory, 
struck into another strain, and, with a charm- 



^m 



Cbri0tma6 jBvc 17 

ing air of gallantry, gave Herrick's * 'Night- 
Piece to Julia." 

Her eyes the glowworm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
lyike the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slowworm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will tend thee their light, 
lyike tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I '11 pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been in- 
tended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I 
found his partner was called ; she, however, was 
certainly unconscious of any such application, 
for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suf- 
fused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and 



i8 XLbc Sketcb==JSoof^ 

there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but 
all that was doubtless caused by the exercise 
of the dance ; indeed, so great was her in- 
difference, that she amused herself with pluck- 
ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house 
flowers, and by the time the song was concluded 
the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke 1^ for the night with 
the kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. 
As I passed through the hall, on my way to my 
chamber, the dying embers of the Yule-clog 
still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not 
been the season when ''no spirit dares stir 
abroad,'* I should have been half tempted 
to steal from my room at midnight, and peep 
whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the man- 
sion, the ponderous furniture of which might 
have been fabricated in the days of the giants. 
The room was panelled with cornices of heavy 
carved work, in which flowers and grotesque 
faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row 
of black-looking portraits stared moiirnfully at 
me from the walls. The bed was of rich, 
though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and 
stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. I had 
scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the 



iiMJ 



Cbrigtmae iBvc 19 

window. I listened, and found it proceeded 
from a band, which I concluded to be the waits 
from some neighboring village. They went 
round the house, playing under the windows. 
I drew aside the curtains to hear them more dis- 
tinctly. The moonbeams fell through the up- 
per part of the casement, partially lighting up 
the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they 
receded, became more soft and aerial, and 
seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. 
I listened and listened, — they became more and 
more tender and remote, and, as they gradually 
died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and 
I fell asleep. 




CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December tum'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's mome 
Smile like a field beset with com ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

WHKN I woke the next morning, it seemed 
as if all the events of the preceding 
evening had been a dream, and nothing but the 
identity of the ancient chamber convinced me 
of their reality. While I lay musing on my 
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering 
outside of the door, and a whispering consulta- 
tion. Presently a choir of small voices chanted 
forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of 
which was — 

" Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning." 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the 
door suddenly, and beheld one of the most 



Cbrt6tma6 Da^ 21 

beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could 
imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, 
the eldest not more than six, and lovely as 
seraphs. They were going the rounds of the 
house, and singing at every chamber door ; but 
my sudden appearance frightened them into 
mute bashfulness. They remained for a mo- 
ment playing on their lips with their fingers, 
and now and then stealing a shy glance from 
under their eyebrows, until, as if by one im- 
pulse, they scampered away, and as they turned 
an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing 
in triumph at their escape. 

Kvery thing conspired to produce kind and 
happy feelings in this stronghold of old-fash- 
ioned hospitality. The window of my chamber 
looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a slop- 
ing lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, 
and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps 
of trees and herds of deer. At a distance was a 
neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage 
chimneys hanging over it ; and a church with 
its dark spire in strong relief against the clear, 
cold sky. The house was surrounded with ever- 
greens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of sum- 
mer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ; 
the light vapor of the preceding evening had 



22 Zbc S?ietcb:sJSook 

been precipitated by the cold, and covered all 
the trees and every blade of grass with its fine 
crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering 
foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a 
mountain-ash that hung its clusters of red ber- 
ries just before my window, was basking him- 
self in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous 
notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride 
and gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the ter- 
race walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant 
appeared to invite me to family prayers. He 
showed me the way to a small chapel in the old 
wing of the house, where I found the principal 
part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and 
large prayer-books ; the servants were seated on 
benches below. The old gentleman read p«rayers 
from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master 
Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses ; 
and I must do him the justice to say that he ac- 
quitted himself with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas 
carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had con- 
structed from a poem of his favorite author, 
Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old 
church melody by Master Simon. As there 



Cbn6tma6 2)a^ 23 

were several good voices among the household, 
the effect was extremely pleasing; but I was 
particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, 
and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which 
the worthy squire delivered one stanza ; his eye 
glistening, and his voice rambling out of all 
the bounds of time and tune : 

*' 'T is thou that crown 'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink ; 
I^ord, 't is thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land ; 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning 
service was read on every Sunday and saint's 
day throughout the year, either by Mr. Brace- 
bridge or by some member of the family. It 
was once almost universally the case at the 
seats of the nobility and gentry of England, 
and it is much to be regretted that the custom 
is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer 
must be sensible of the order and serenity 
prevalent in those households, where the occa- 
sional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to 
every temper for the day, and attunes every 
spirit to harmony. 



24 tibe Sfietcb^JBook 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire 
denominated true old English fare. He in- 
dulged in some bitter lamentations over modern 
breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured 
as among the causes of modem effeminacy and 
weak nerves, and the decline of old English 
heartiness ; and, though he admitted them to 
his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet 
there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, 
and ale on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds 
with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, 
Mr. Simon, as he was called by everybody but 
the squire. We were escorted by a number of 
gentleman-like dogs, that seemed loungers 
about the establishment, from the frisking 
spaniel to the steady old stag-hound, — the 
last of which was of a race that had been in 
the family time out of mind ; they were all 
obedient to a dog- whistle which hung to Master 
Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their 
gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon 
a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable 
look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moon- 
light ; and I could not but feel the force of the 
squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily 
moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees 
carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 



flbri6tma0 Bag ^5 

There appeared to be an unusual number of 
peacocks about the place, and I was making 
some remarks upon what I termed a flock of 
them, that were basking under a sunny wall, 
when I was gently corrected in my phraseology 
by Master Simon, who told me that according 
to the most ancient and approved treatise on 
hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. ^* In 
the same way,'' added he, with a slight air of 
pedantry, *' we say a flight of doves or swallows, 
a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or 
cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to 
this bird ^*both understanding and glory; for, 
being praised, he will presently set up his tail, 
chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may 
the better behold the beauty thereof. But at 
the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will 
mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail 
come again as it was. ' ' 

I could not help smiling at this display of 
small erudition on so whimsical a subject ; but I 
found that the peacocks were birds of some 
consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with 
his father, who was extremely careful to keep 
up the breed ; partly because they belonged 
to chivalry, and were in great request at the 



26 tLbc Sketcb*J8ook 

stately banquets of the olden time, and partly 
because they had a pomp and magnificence 
about them highly becoming an old family 
mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, 
had an air of greater state and dignity than a 
peacock perched upon an antique stone balus- 
trade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having 
an appointment at the parish church with the 
village choristers, who were to perform some 
music of his selection. There was something 
extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of 
animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess 
I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quota- 
tions from authors who certainly were not in 
the range of everyday reading. I mentioned 
this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's 
whole stock of erudition was confined to some 
half a dozen old authors, which the squire had 
put into his hands, and which he read over 
and over whenever he had a studious fit ; as 
he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long 
winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
" Book of Husbandry " ; Markham's ''Country 
Contentments"; the ''Tretyseof Hunting," by 
Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight ; Isaac Wal- 
ton's ''Angler," and two or three more such 
ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard 



Cbdatmaa S)a8 ^7 

authorities ; and, like all men who know but a 
few books, he looked up to them with a kind of 
idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As 
to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of 
old books in the squire's library, and adapted 
to tunes that were popular among the choice 
spirits of the last century. His practical appli- 
cation of scraps of literature, however, had 
caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of 
book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, 
and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant 
tolling of the village bell, and I was told that 
the squire was a little particular in having his 
household at church on a Christmas morning ; 
considering it a day for pouring out of thanks 
and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal^ 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the 
small." 

**If you are disposed to go to church," said 
Frank Bracebridge, *'I can promise you a speci- 
men of my cousin Simon's musical achieve- 
ments. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, 
and established a musical club for their im- 
provement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he 
sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to 



2^ Zbc Sfeetcb^sJSook 



the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his 
* Country Contentments ' : for the bass he has 
sought out all the * deep, solemn mouths, ' and 
for the tenor the * loud-ringing mouths, ' among 
the country bumpkins ; and for * sweet mouths,' 
he has culled with curious taste among the 
prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though 
these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to 
keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being 
exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very 
liable to accident.'* 

As the morning, though frosty, was remark- 
ably fine and clear, the most of the family 
walked to the church, which was a very old 
building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoin- 
ing it was a low, snug parsonage, which seemed 
coeval with the church. The front of it was 
perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been 
trained against its walls, through the dense 
foliage of which, apertures had been formed to 
admit the light into the small antique lattices. 
As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned 
pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in 
the vicinity of a rich patron's table ; but I was 
disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was 



Cbrfatmae Dai^ 29 

too wide, and stood off from each ear ; so that 
his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, 
like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty 
coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would 
have held the church Bible and prayer-book ; 
and his small legs seemed still smaller, from 
being planted in large shoes, decorated with 
enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the 
parson had been a chum of his father's at Ox- 
ford, and had received this living shortly after 
the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
complete black-letter hunter, and would scarce- 
ly read a work printed in the Roman character. 
The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde 
were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 
his researches after such old English writers as 
have fallen into oblivion from their worthless- 
ness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of 
Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investi- 
gations into the festive rights and holiday cus- 
toms of former times ; and had been as zealous 
in the inquiry as if he had been a boon compan- 
ion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit 
with which men of adust temperament follow 
up any track of study, merely because it is de- 
nominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic 
nature, whether it be the illustration of the 
wisdom or of the ribaldry and obscenity of an- 



30 tCbe Sketcb:s:©ooh 

tiquity. He had pored over these old volumes 
so intensely that they seemed to have been re- 
flected in his countenance ; which, if the face 
be indeed an index of the mind, might be com- 
pared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the 
parson rebuking the gray-headed sexton for 
having used mistletoe among the greens with 
which the church was decorated. It was, he 
observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having 
been used by the Druids in their mystic cere- 
monies ; and though it might be innocently 
employed in the festive ornamenting of halls 
and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the 
fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and 
totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious 
was he on this point, that the poor sexton 
was obliged to strip down a great part of the 
humble trophies of his taste, before the par- 
son would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but 
simple ; on the walls were several mural monu- 
ments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the 
altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with 
his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a 
Crusader. I was told it was one of the family 
who had signalized himself in the Holy I^and, 



and the same whose picture hung over the fire- 
place in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the 
pew, and repeated the responses very audibly ; 
evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion 
punctually observed by a gentleman of the old 
school and a man of old family connections. 
I observed, too, that he turned over the leaves 
of a folio prayer-book with something of a 
flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous 
seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and 
which had the look of a family relic. But he 
was evidently most solicitous about the musical 
part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intent- 
ly on the choir, and beating time with much 
gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and pre- 
sented a most whimsical grouping of heads, 
piled one above the other, among which I par- 
ticularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale 
fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who 
played on a clarionet, and seemed to have blown 
his face to a point ; and there was another, a 
short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a 
bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a 
round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. 
There were two or three pretty faces among the 
female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty 
morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the 



3^ XLbc Sketcbs=:fi3oofe 

gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, 
like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than 
looks ; and as several had to sing from the same 
book, there were clusterings of odd physiogno- 
mies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we 
sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed 
tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging 
a little behind the instrumental, and some 
loitering fiddler now and then making up for 
lost time by travelling over a passage with pro- 
digious celerity, and clearing more bars than 
the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. 
But the great trial was an anthem that had been 
prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and 
on which he had founded great expectation. 
Unluckily there was a blunder at the very out- 
set ; the musicians became flurried ; Master 
Simon was in a fever ; every thing went on 
lamely and irregularly until they came to a 
chorus beginning : ^' Now let us sing with one 
accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting 
company : all became discord and confusion ; 
each shifted for himself, and got to the end as 
well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting 
one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles 
bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose, 
who happened to stand a little apart, and, being 
wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a 



Cbrt6tma6 Dai^ 33 

quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling 
his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of 
at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on 
the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the 
propriety of observing it not merely as a day of 
thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the Church, and enforcing them by the 
authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cy- 
prian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a 
cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom he 
made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss 
to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array 
of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon 
found that the good man had a legion of ideal 
adversaries to contend with ; having, in the 
course of his researches on the subject of Christ- 
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian 
controversies of the Revolution, when the Puri- 
tans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremo- 
nies of the Church, and poor old Christmas was 
driven out of the land by proclamation of Par- 
liament.^ The worthy parson lived but with 
times past, and knew but little of the present. 

*Froin the Flying Eagle ^ a small gazette, published 
December 24, 1652: — "The House spent miuch tim.e this 
day about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs 
at sea, and before they rose were presented with a terri- 



34 ^be Sketcb=5JSook 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the re- 
tirement of his antiquated little study, the pages 
of old times were to him as the gazettes of the 
day ; while the era of the Revolution was mere 
modern history. He forgot that nearly two 
centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution 
of poor minced-pie throughout the land ; when 
plum-porridge was denounced as *' mere po- 
pery," and roast beef as anti-Christian ; and that 
Christmas had been brought in again triumph- 
antly with the merry court of King Charles at 
the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with 
the ardor of his contest, and the host of im- 
aginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he 
had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two 
or three other forgotten champions of the Round- 
heads on the subject of Christmas festivity ; 
and concluded by urging his hearers, in the 
most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to 
the traditional customs of their fathers, and 
feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the Church. 

ble remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon 
divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16 ; i Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in 
honor of the IvOrd's Day, grounded upon these Scrip- 
tures, John XX. I ; Rev. i. 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24 ; I^ev. 
xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 ; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10 ; in which 
Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse- 
mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence 
of which Parliament spent some time in consultation 
about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to 
that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, 
which was commonly called Christmas day." 



CbrlBtmaa 5>ai2 35 

I have seldom known a sermon attended ap- 
parently with more immediate effects ; for on 
leaving the church the congregation seemed 
one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit 
so earnestly enj oined by their pastor. The elder 
folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, 
greeting and shaking hands ; and the children 
ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some 
uncouth rhymes,"^ which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down 
from days of yore. The villagers doffed their 
hats to the squire as he passed, giving him the 
good wishes of the season with every appear- 
ance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by 
him to the hall, to take something to keep out 
the cold of the weather ; and I heard blessings 
uttered by several of the poor, which convinced 
me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the 
worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true 
Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed over- 
flowed with generous and happy feelings. As we 
passed over a rising ground which commanded 
something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic 
merriment now and then reached our ears ; the 
squire paused for a few moments, and looked 

*"Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! ' ' 



36 ^be SRctcb^JSook 

around with an air of inexpressible benignity. 
Tile beauty of the day was of itself sufficient 
to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the 
frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloud- 
less journey had acquired sufficient power to 
melt away the thin covering of snow from every 
southern declivity, and to bring out the living 
green which adorns an Bnglish landscape even 
in midwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure 
contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the 
shaded slopes and hollows. Kvery sheltered 
bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded 
its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering 
through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight 
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that 
hung just above the surface of the earth. There 
was something truly cheering in this triumph of 
warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of 
winter; it was, as the squire observed, an em- 
blem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through 
the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
thawing every heart into a flow. •He pointed 
with pleasure to the indications of good cheer 
reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable 
farm-houses and low thatched cottages. *'I 
love,'' said he, "to see this day well kept by 
rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have one 
day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
being welcome wherever you go, and of having, 



Cbri6tma6 2)a^ 37 

as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; 
and I am almost disposed to join with Poor 
Robin, in his malediction on every churlish 
enemy to this honest festival : 

Those who at Christinas do repine 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 

May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em. 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable 
decay of the games and amufeements which 
were once prevalent at this season among the 
lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; 
when the old halls of the castles and manor- 
houses were thrown open at daylight ; when the 
tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and 
humming ale ; when the harp and the carol 
resounded all day long, and when rich and poor 
were alike welcome to enter and make merry. "^ 
**Our old games and local customs," said he, 
** had a great effect in making the peasant fond 
of his hom.e, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made 

" * " An J^ng-lish gentleman, at the opening of the great 
day, t. e., on Christmas day in the morning, had all his 
tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The 
strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went 
plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and 
good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) 
must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must 
take the maiden (/. e., the cook) bj^ the arms, and run her 
round the market-place till she is shamed of her lazi- 
ness."—" Round About our Sea-Coal Fire." 



38 Zbc Sketcb^JBook 

the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and 
I can truly say, with one of our old poets : 

'* ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

**The nation," continued he, '*is altered; 
we have almost lost our simple true-hearted 
peasantry. They have broken asunder from 
the higher classes, and seem to think their 
interests are separate. They have become too 
knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen 
to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I 
think one mode to keep them in good humor in 
these hard times would be for the nobility and 
gentry to pass more time on their estates, min- 
gle more among the country people, and set 
the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigat- 
ing public discontent : and, indeed, he had 
once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, 
and a few years before had kept open house 
during the holidays in the old style. The 
country people, however, did not understand 
how to play their parts in the scene of hospital- 
ity ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; 
the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of 
the country, and more beggars drawn into the 
neighborhood in one week than the parish offi- 



Cbdgtmae 2>ai5 39 

cers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he 
had contented himself with inviting the decent 
part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the 
hall on Christmas day, and with distributing 
beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that 
they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound 
of music was heard from a distance. A band 
of country lads, without coats, their shirt- 
sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats 
decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, 
was seen advancing up the avenue, followed by 
a large number of villagers and peasantry. 
They stopped before the hall door, where the 
music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, 
retreating, and striking their clubs together, 
keeping exact time, to the music ; while one, 
whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail 
of which flaunted down his back, kept capering 
round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a 
Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with 
great interest and delight, and gave me a full 
account of its origin, which he traced to the 
times when the Romans held possession of the 
island; plainly proving that this was a lineal 
descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. 
** It was now," he said, *' nearly extinct, but he 



40 Zbc SKetcbs=J5oo?i 

had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; 
though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be 
followed up by the rough cudgel play, and 
broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole 
party was entertained with brawn and beef, 
and stout home-brewed. The squire himself 
mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three 
of the younger peasants, as they were raising 
their tankards to their mouths, when the 
squire's back was turned, making something of 
a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but 
the moment they caught my eye they pulled 
grave faces and were exceedingly demure. 
With Master Simon, however, they all seemed 
more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known 
throughout the neighborhood. He was a 
visitor at every farm-house and cottage ; gos- 
siped with the farmers and their wives ; 
romped with their daughters ; and, like that 
type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way 
before good cheer and affability. There is 



Cbrf6tma6 2>ai2 41 

sometliing genuine and affectionate in the 
gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited 
by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into 
their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleas- 
antry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the 
heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. 
When the squire had retired, the merriment 
increased, and there was much joking and 
laughter, particularly between Master Simon 
and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, 
who appeared to be the wit of the village ; for I 
observed all his companions to wait with open 
mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratui- 
tous laugh before they could well understand 
them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned 
to merriment : as I passed to my room to dress 
for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a 
small court, and, looking through a window 
that commanded it, I perceived a band of 
wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and 
tambourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was 
dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while 
several of the other servants were looking on. 
In the midst of her sport the girl caught a 
glimpse of my face at the window, and, color- 
ing up, ran off with an air of roguish, affected 
confusion. 




THK CHRISTMAS DINNKR. 

lyO, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

lyet every man be jolly, 
Kache roome with j^ie leaves is drest, 

And every post with hollj^. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning" ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee 'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering 
with Frank Bracebridge in the library, 
when we heard a distant thwacking sound, 
which he informed me was a signal for the 
serving up of the dinner. The squire kept up 
old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the 
rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the 
cook, summoned the servants to carry in the 
meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 
His summons did obey ; 



tCbe Cbri6tma6 Binnet 43 

Bach serving man, with dish in hand, 
March 'd boldly up, like our train band, 
Presented, and away. * 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, 
where the squire always held his Christmas 
banquet. A blazing, crackling fire of logs had 
been heaped on to warm the spacious apart- 
ment, and the flame went sparkling and wreath- 
ing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the Crusader and his white horse had 
been profusely decorated with greens for the 
occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been 
wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the 
opposite wall, which I understood were the 
arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the 
by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity 
of the painting and armor as having belonged 
to the Crusader, they certainly having the stamp 
of more recent days ; but I was told that the 
painting had been so considered time out of 
mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its 
present situation by the squire, who at once de- 
termined it to be the armor of the family hero ; 
and as he was absolute authority on all such 
subjects in his own household, the matter had 
passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was 
set out just under this chivalric trophy, on 

* Sir John Suckling. 



44 O^be Sketcb^JSooh 

which was a display of plate that might have 
vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's 
parade of the vessels of the temple : ''flagons, 
cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ew- 
ers"; the gorgeous utensils of good companion- 
ship that had gradually accumulated through 
many generations of jovial housekeepers. Be- 
fore these stood the two Yule-candles, beaming 
like two stars of the first magnitude ; other 
lights were distributed in branches, and the 
whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 
We were ushered into this banqueting scene 
with the sound of minstrelsy, the old harper 
being seated on a stool beside the fireplace, and 
twanging his instrument with a vast deal more 
power than melody. Never did Christmas 
board display a more goodly and gracious as- 
semblage of countenances ; those who were not 
handsome were, at least, happy ; and happiness 
is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. 
I always consider an old English family as well 
worth studying as a collection of Holbein's por- 
traits or Albert Diirer's prints. There is much 
antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowl- 
edge of the physiognomies of former times. 
Perhaps it may be from having continually 
before their eyes those rows of old family por- 
traits, with which the mansions of this- country 
are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint 



tCbe Cbrietmaa IXnnet 45 

features of antiquity are often most faithfully- 
perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have 
traced an old family nose through a whole 
picture-gallery, legitimately handed down from 
generation to generation, almost from the time 
of the Conquest. Something of the kind was 
to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently origi- 
nated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied 
by succeeding generations ; and there was one 
little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with 
a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar 
aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, 
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and 
the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who 
figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short 
familiar one, such as is commonly addressed to 
the Deity in these unceremonious days ; but a 
long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected ; when suddenly the butler 
entered the hall with some degree of bustle ; 
he was attended by a servant on each side with 
a large waxlight, and bore a silver dish, on 
which was an enormous pig's head, decorated 
with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, 
which was placed with great formality at the 
head of the table. The moment this pageant 



46 Zbc Sketcbs=JSooft 

made its appearance, the harper struck up a 
flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young 
Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, 
gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an 
old carol, the first verse of which was as fol- 
lows : 

" Caput apri defero 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head in hand bring I, 

With garlands gay and rosemary. 

I pray you all synge merrily 
Qui estis in convivio." 

Though prepared to witness many of these 
little eccentricities, from being apprised of the 
peculiar hobby of mine host, yet, I confess, the 
parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from 
the conversation of the squire and the parson, 
that it was meant to represent the bringing in of 
the boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy 
and song, at great tables, on Christmas day. 
"I like the old custom," said the squire, ^' not 
merely because it is stately and pleasing in 
itself, but because it was observed at the college 
at Oxford at which I was educated. When I 
hear the old songs chanted, it brings to mind 
the time when I was young and gamesome, 
— and the noble old college-hall, — and my fel- 
low-students loitering about in their black 



tLbc Cbri6tma0 5>inner 47 

gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in 
their graves ! ^^ 

The parson^ however, whose mind was not 
haunted by such associations, and who was 
always more taken up with the text than the 
sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of 
the carol ; which he affirmed was different from 
that sung at college. He went on, with the dry 
perseverance of a commentator, to give the 
college reading, accompanied by sundry anno- 
tations ; addressing himself at first to the com- 
pany at large ; but finding their attention 
gradually diverted to other talk and other 
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his 
remarks in an undervoice, to a fat-headed 
old gentleman next him, who was silently en- 
gaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
turkey.^ 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
Christmas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's 
College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a 
copy of the carol as now sung, and, as it may be accept- 
able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave 
and learned matters, I give it entire : 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck' d with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 



4^ TLbc S^etcb==Sook 

The table was literally loaded with good 
cheer, and presented an epitome of country 
abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. 
A distinguished post was allotted to ' ' ancient 
sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he 
added, *'the standard of old English hospitality, 
and a joint of goodly presence, and full of ex- 
pectation." There were several dishes quaintly 
decorated, and which had evidently something 
traditional in their embellishments ; but about 
which, as I did not like to appear over-ciu-ious, 
I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, mag- 
nificently decorated with peacock's feathers, in 
imitation of the tail of that bird, which over- 
shadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed, with some little 
hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a pea- 
cock pie was certainly the most authentical ; 
but there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail 
upon himself to have one killed.^ 

which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
IvCt us servire cautico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for 
£tatelj entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a 



^be Gbri6tma6 2)lnner 49 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser 
readers, wlio may not have that foolish fond- 
ness for odd and obsolete things to which I am 
a little given, were I to mention the other 
makeshifts of this worthy old humorist, by 
which he was endeavoring to follow up, though 
at humble distance, the quaint customs of an- 
tiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the re- 
spect shown to his whims by his children and 
relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the 
full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed 
in their parts ; having doubtless been present 
at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the 
air of profound gravity with which the butler 
and other servants executed the duties assigned 
them, however eccentric. They had an old- 
fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been 
brought up in the household, and grown into 

pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the 
crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly ^ilt ; at the 
other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served 
up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights- 
errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
enterprise ; whence came the ancient oath, used by 
Justice Shallow, "by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christ- 
mas feast ; and Massinger, in his " City Madam," gives 
some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well 
as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of 
the olden times : 

" Men may talk of country Christmases, 

" Their thirty -pound butter 'd eggs, their pies of carps' 
tongues ; 

"Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the car- 
cases of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce 
for a single peacock." 



50 tTbe Sftetcb==3Book 

keeping with tlie antiquated mansion, and the 
humors of its lord ; and most probably looked 
upon all his whimsical regulations as the 
established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler 
brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and curi- 
ous workmanship, which he placed before the 
squire. Its appearance was hailed with accla- 
mation ; being the wassail bowl, so renowned 
in Christmas festivity. The contents had been 
prepared by the squire himself; for it was a 
beverage in the skilful mixture of which he 
particularly prided himself ; alleging that it was 
too abstruse and complex for the comprehen- 
sion of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, 
indeed, that might well make the heart of a 
toper leap within him ; being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and 
sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
the surface."^ 

* The wassail bowl was sometimes composed of ale 
instead of wine | with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and 
roasted crabs ; m this way the nut-brown beverage is 
still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths 
of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called 
lamb's wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his 
" Twelfth Night " : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle lamb's wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 

To make the wassaile a swinger. 



Zbc Cbtietmae 2>inner 51 

The old gentleman's whole countenance 
beamed with a serene look of indwelling de- 
light, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having 
raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a 
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it 
brimming round the board, for every one to 
follow his example, according to the primitive 
style ; pronouncing it *' the ancient fountain 
of good feeling, where all hearts met to- 
gether." * 

There was much laughing and rallying as the 
honest emblem of Christmas joviality circu- 
lated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. 
When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in 
both hands, and with the air of a boon com- 
panion struck up an old wassail chanson : 

" The brown bowle, 
The merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Btill, 
I<et the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

** The deep canne, 
The merry deep canne, 

* " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave 
place to each having his cup. When the steward came 
to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times, 
Wassely IVassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) 
was to aUvSwer with a song."— "Archseologia." 



52 ^be Skctcb^JSook 

As thou dost freely quaflf-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a." * 

Much of the conversation during dinner 
turned upon family topics, to which I was a 
stranger. There was, however, a great deal of 
rallying of Master Simon about some gay 
widow, with whom he was accused of having 
a flirtation. This attack was commenced by 
the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the 
dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next 
the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a 
slow hound ; being one of those long-winded 
jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, 
are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it 
down. At every pause in the general conversa- 
tion, he renewed his bantering in pretty much 
the same terms ; winking hard at me with both 
eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he 
considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, 
seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as 
old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occa- 
sion to inform me, in an undertone, that the 
lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman, 
and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of 
innocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may 
* From " Poor Robin's Almanac." 



XLbc Cbri6tma6 ©inner 53 

have resounded in its time with many a scene 
of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether 
it ever witnessed more honest and genuine en- 
joyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being 
to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is 
a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making 
every thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! 
The joyous disposition of the worthy squire was 
perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, 
and disposed to make all the world happy; 
and the little eccentricities of his humor did 
but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his 
philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, 
as usual, became still more animated ; many 
good things were broached which had been 
thought of during dinner, but which would not 
exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though I can- 
not positively affirm that there was much wit 
uttered, yet I have certainly heard many con- 
tests of rare wit produce much less laughter. 
Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingre- 
dient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; 
but honest good-humor is the oil and wine of a 
merry meeting, and there is no jovial com- 
panionship equal to that where the jokes are 
rather small, and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early 
college pranks and adventures, in some of 



54 tTbe Sketcb*:fi3ook 

which the parson had been a sharer ; though in 
looking at the latter, it required some effort of 
imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy 
of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gam- 
bol. Indeed, the two college chums presented 
pictures of what men may be made by their 
different lots in life. The squire had left the 
university to live lustily on his paternal do- 
mains, in the vigorous enjoyment of pros- 
perity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a 
hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor par- 
son, on the contrary, had dried and withered 
away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and 
shadow of his study. Still there seemed to be 
a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glim- 
mering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the 
squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a 
pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the 
banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an 
** alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could 
decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was 
indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely 
met with an old gentleman that took absolute 
offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 
I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gain- 
ing on the dry land of sober judgment. The 
company grew merrier and louder as their jokes 
grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping 
a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his 



Zhc Cbri6tma6 Dinner 55 

old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he 
began to talk maudlin about the widow. He 
even gave a long song about the wooing of a 
widow, which he informed me he had gathered 
from an excellent black-letter work, entitled 
** Cupid's Solicitor for lyove," containing store 
of good advice for bachelors, and which he 
promised to lend me. The first verse was to 
this effect : — 

" He that will woo a widow must not dally, 

He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 
He must not stand with her, Shall I, shall I ? 
But boldly say. Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentle- 
man, who made several attempts to tell a rather 
broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to 
the purpose ; but he always stuck in the mid- 
dle, everybody recollecting the latter part ex- 
cepting himself. The parson, too, began to 
show the effects of good cheer, having gradu- 
ally settled down into a doze, and his wig sit- 
ting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this 
juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and, I suspect, at the private instiga- 
tion of mine host, whose joviality seemed al- 
ways tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall 
was given up to the younger members of the 
family, who, prompted to all kinds of noisy 



56 XLbc Sl^ctcbs'JSook 

mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made 
its old walls ring with their merriment, as they 
played at romping games. I delight in wit- 
nessing the gambols of children, and particu- 
larly at this happy holiday season, and could 
not help stealing out of the drawing-room on 
hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found 
them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master 
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and 
seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of 
that ancient potentate, lyord of Misrule,* was 
blinded in the midst of the hall. The little be- 
ings were as busy about him as the mock fairies 
about Falstafif ; pinching him, plucking at the 
skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. 
One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with 
her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her 
frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her 
shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor ; and, from the slyness with 
which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, 
and hemmed this wild little nymph in comers, 
and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 



*"At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, 
wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or 
mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye in the 
house of every nobleman of honour, or good worshippe, 
were he spiritual! or temporall." — Stowe. 



XLbc Cbr(6tma6 Mnncv 57 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I 
found the company seated round the fire, list- 
ening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced 
in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some 
cunning artificer of yore, which had been 
brought from the library for his particular 
accommodation. From this venerable piece 
of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, 
he was dealing out strange accounts of the 
popular superstitions and legends of the sur- 
rounding country, with which he had become 
acquainted in the course of his antiquarian re- 
searches. I am half inclined to think that the 
old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured 
with superstition, as men are very apt to be 
who live a recluse and studious life in a seques- 
tered part of the country, and pore over black- 
letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous 
and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes 
of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, con- 
cerning the efiigy of the Crusader, which lay on 
the tomb by the church altar. As it was the 
only monument of the kind in that part of the 
country, it had always been regarded with feel- 
ings of superstition by the good wives of the 
village. It was said to get up from the tomb 
and walk the rounds of the churchyard in 
stormy nights, particularly when it thun- 



58 Zbc Sketcb=JI3ook 

dered ; and one old woman, whose cottage 
bordered on the churchyard, had seen it 
through the windows of the church, when 
the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down 
the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong 
had been left unredressed by the deceased, or 
some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in 
a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked 
of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over 
which the spectre kept watch ; and there was 
a story current of a sexton in old times, who 
endeavored to break his way to the coffin at 
night, but, just as he reached it, received a vio- 
lent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, 
which stretched him senseless on the pavement. 
These tales were often laughed at by some of 
the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night 
came on, there were many of the stoutest un- 
believers that were shy of venturing alone in 
the footpath that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, 
the Crusader appeared to be the favorite hero of 
ghost-stories throughout the vicinity. His pic- 
ture, which hung up in the hall, was thought 
by the servants to have something supernatural 
about it ; for they remarked that, in whatever 
part of the hall you went, the eyes of the war- 
rior were still fixed on you. The old porter's 
wife, too, at the lodge, who had been bom and 



^^^g^_^^,g^^__llg_l_^lgll^,^ 



trbc Cbtistmaa ©inner 59 

brought up in the family, and was a great gos- 
sip among the maid-servants, affirmed, that in 
her young days she had often heard say, that on 
Midsummer eve, when it was well known all 
kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become 
visible and walk abroad, the Crusader used to 
mount his horse, come down from his picture, 
ride about the house, down the avenue, and so 
to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occa- 
sion the church door most civilly swung open 
of itself; not that he needed it, for he rode 
through closed gates and even stone walls, and 
had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pass 
between two bars of the great park gate, making 
himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very 
much countenanced by the squire, who, though 
not superstitious himself, was very fond of see- 
ing others so. He listened to every goblin- 
tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite 
gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 
favor on account of her talent for the mar- 
vellous. He was himself a great reader of old 
legends and romances, and often lamented 
that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind 
of fairy-land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's 
stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a 



6o tcbe Sketcb^ffiooft 

burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in 
which were mingled something like the clang 
of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many- 
small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping 
into the room, that might almost have been 
mistaken for the breaking up of the court of 
Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, 
in the faithful discharge of his duties as I^ord of 
Misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas 
mummery or masking ; and having called in to 
his assistance the Oxonian and the young offi- 
cer, who were equally ripe for any thing that 
should occasion romping and merriment, they 
had carried it into instant effect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique 
clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and 
made to yield up the relics of finery that had 
not seen the light for several generations ; the 
younger part of the company had been privately 
convened from the parlor and hall, and the 
whole had been bedizened out into a burlesque 
imitation of an antique mask."^ 

Master Simon led the van, as ''Ancient 
Christmas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short 

* Maskin^s or mummeries were favorite sports at 
Christmas m old times ; and the wardrobes at halls and 
manor-houses were often laid under contribution to fur- 
nish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly sus- 
pect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from 
Ben Jonson's ** Masque of Christmas, " 



■::samMtas6i 



tibe Cbtl0tma5 Dinner 61 

cloak, which had very much the aspect of one of 
the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that 
might have served for a village steeple, and 
must indubitably have figured in the days of the 
Covenanters. From under this his nose curved 
boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, 
that seemed the very trophy of a December 
blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed 
romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in the 
venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long 
stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. 
The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a 
sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging 
cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testi- 
mony to deep research, and there was an evi- 
dent eye to the picturesque, natural to a young 
gallant in the presence of his mistress. The 
fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic 
dress, as Maid Marian. The rest of the train 
had been metamorphosed in various ways : the 
girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient 
belles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip- 
lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and grave- 
ly clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and 
full-bottomed wigs, to represent the character 
of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other wor- 
thies celebrated in ancient maskings. The 
whole was under the control of the Oxonian, 



62 XLtoc S?^etcbs=:fi3ooh 

in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I 
observed that he exercised a rather mischievous 
sway with his wand over the smaller personages 
of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of 
drum, according to ancient custom, was the con- 
summation of uproar and merriment. Master 
Simon covered himself with glory by the state- 
liness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he 
walked a minuet with the peerless, though 
giggling. Dame Mince Pie. It was followed 
by a dance of all the characters, which, from 
its medley of costumes, seemed as though the 
old family portraits had skipped down from 
their frames to join in the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right 
and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes 
and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess jig- 
ging merrily down the middle, through a line 
of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fan- 
tastic sports, and the resurrection of his old 
wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish 
delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his 
hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was dis- 
coursing most authentically on the ancient 
and stately dance at the Pavon, or peacock, 
from which he conceived the minuet to be de- 



^be Cbrietmaa Binner 63 

rived. "^ For my part, I was in a continual excite- 
ment from the varied scenes of whim and inno- 
cent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring 
to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospi- 
tality breaking out from among the chills and 
glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his 
apathy, and catching once more the freshness 
of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in 
the scene, from the consideration that these fleet- 
ing customs were posting fast into oblivion, and 
that this was, perhaps, the only family in Eng- 
land in which the whole of them was still punc- 
tiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, 
mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a pe- 
culiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; 
and as the old manor-house almost reeled with 
mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the 
joviality of long-departed years, f 

* Sir Jolin Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the 
Pavon, from pavo, a peacock, says : ** It is a grave and 
majestic dance ; the method of dancing it anciently was 
by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of 
the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their man- 
tles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the 
motion whereof in dancing resembled that of a pea- 
cock.'' — " History of Music." 

t At the time of the first publication of this paper, the 
picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country 
was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had 
afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the 
customs above described, existing in unexpected vigor in 
the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed 
the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some no- 
tice of them in the author's account of his sojourn at 
Newstead Abbey. 



64 Zbc SFietcbs=Ji8ook 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it 
is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Me- 
thinks I hear the questions asked by my graver 
readers: *'To what purpose is all this ; how is 
the world to be made wiser by this talk?'* 
Alas ! is there not wisdom enough extant for 
the instruction of the world ? And if not, are 
there not thousands of abler pens laboring for 
its improvement ? It is so much pleasanter to 
please than to instruct, — to play the companion 
rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I 
could throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how 
am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe 
guides for the opinions of others ? But in writ- 
ing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my 
own disappointment. If, however, I can by 
any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub 
out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or be- 
guile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; 
if I can now and then penetrate through the 
gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benev- 
olent view of human nature, and make my 
reader more in good-humor with his fellow- 
beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not 
then have written entirely in vain. 




IvONDON ANTIQUES. 

1 do walk 

Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and 
am fond of exploring I^ondon in quest of 
the relics of old times. These are principally 
to be found in the depths of the city, swal- 
lowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of 
brick and mortar ; but deriving poetical and 
romantic interest from the commonplace pro- 
saic world around them. I was struck with an 
instance of the kind in the course of a recent 
summer ramble into the city ; for the city is 
only to be explored to advantage in summer- 
time, when free from the smoke and fog and 
rain and mud of winter. I had been buffet- 
ing for some time against the current of popu- 
lation setting through Fleet Street. The warm 
weather had unstrung my nerves, and made me 



66 XLbc Sketcb=:fi3oo]ft 

sensitive to every jar and jostle and discordant 
sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, 
and I was getting out of humor with the busthng 
busy throng through which I had to struggle, 
when in a fit of desperation I tore my way 
through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, and 
after passing through several obscure nooks and 
angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court 
with a grass-plot in the centre, overhung by 
elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green 
by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. 
A student, with book in hand, was seated on a 
stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating 
on the movements of two or three trim nursery 
maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come 
upon an oasis amid the panting sterility of the 
desert. By degrees the quiet and coolness of 
the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my 
spirit. I pursued niiy walk, and came, hard by, 
to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed 
Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. 
The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted 
from above. Around were monumental tombs 
of ancient date, on which were extended the 
marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had 
the hands devoutly crossed upon the breast ; 
others grasped the pommel of the sword, men- 
acing hostility even in the tomb ! — while the 



XonDon antiques 67 

crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the 
Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy 
Land. I was, in fact, in the chapel of the 
Knights Templar, strangely situated in the very 
centre of sordid traffic ; and I do not know a 
more impressive lesson for the man of the world 
than thus suddenly to turn aside from the high- 
way of busy money-seeking life, and sit down 
among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is 
twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I en- 
countered another of these relics of a ** foregone 
world," locked up in the heart of the city. I 
had been wandering for some time through dull 
monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to 
strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I 
beheld before me a Gothic gateway of moulder- 
ing antiquity. It opened into a spacious quad- 
rangle forming the court-yard of a stately 
Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly 
open. It was apparently a public edifice, and as 
I was antiquity hunting, I ventured in, though 
with dubious steps. Meeting no one either to 
oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on 
until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty 
arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic 
architecture. At one end of the hall was an 
enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on each 
side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or 



68 ^be Sketcb^sJSook 

dais, the seat of state, above which was the 
portrait of a man in antique garb, with a long 
robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monas- 
tic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a 
mysterious charm was, that I had not met with 
a human being since I had passed the threshold. 
Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself 
in a recess of a large bow-window, which ad- 
mitted a broad flood of yellow sunshine, check- 
ered here and there by tints from panes of col- 
ored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft 
summer air. Here, leaning my head on my 
hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, I in- 
dulged in a sort of a revery about what might 
have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It 
had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps 
one of those collegiate establishments built of 
yore for the promotion of learning, where the 
patient monk, in the ample solitude of the clois- 
ter, added page to page and volume to volume, 
emulating in the productions of his brain the 
magnitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small 
panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the 
hall was opened, and a number of gray-headed 
old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth 
one by one : proceeding in that manner through 
the hall, without uttering a word, each turning 



XonDon Bntiquc6 69 

a pale face on me as lie passed, and disappearing 
through a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appear- 
ance ; their black cloaks and antiquated air 
comported with the style of this most venerable 
and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts 
of the departed years, about which I had 
been musing, were passing in review before 
me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, I 
set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore 
what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, 
existing in the very centre of substantial 
realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of 
interior courts, and corridors, and dilapidated 
cloisters, for the main edifice had many addi- 
tions and dependencies, built at various times 
and in various styles ; in one open space a 
number of boys, who evidently belonged to the 
establishment, were at their sports ; but every- 
where I observed those mysterious old gray 
men in black mantles, sometimes sauntering 
alone, sometimes conversing in groups : they 
appeared to be the pervading genii of the 
place. I now called to mind what I had read of 
certain colleges in old times, where judicial 
astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other 
forbidden and magical sciences were taught. 
Was this an establishment of the kind, and 



70 Zbc S{^etcb==JSook 

were these black-cloaked old men really pro- 
fessors of the black art ? 

These surmises were passing through my 
mind as my eye glanced into a chamber, hung 
round with all kinds of strange and uncouth 
objects : implements of savage warfare ; strange 
idols and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents 
and monsters decorated the mantel-piece ; while 
on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead 
grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by 
a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this 
mystic chamber, which seemed a fitting labora- 
tory for a necromancer, when I was startled at 
beholding a human countenance staring at me 
from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, 
shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright 
eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at 
first doubted whether it were not a mummy 
curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw 
that it was alive. It was another of these black- 
cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint 
physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hid- 
eous and sinister objects by which he was 
surrounded, I began to persuade myself that 
I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled 
over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose 
and invited me to enter. I obeyed with singu- 



XonDon antiques 71 

lar hardihood, for how did I know whether a 
wave of his wand might not metamorphose me 
into some strange monster, or conjure me into 
one of the bottles on his mantel-piece? He 
proved, however, to be any thing but a con- 
jurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all 
the magic and mystery with which I had en- 
veloped this antiquated pile and its no less 
antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the 
centre of an ancient asylum for superannuated 
tradesmen and decayed householders, with 
which was connected a school for a limited 
number of boys. It was founded upwards of 
two centuries since on an old monastic estab- 
lishment, and retained somewhat of the con- 
ventual air and character. The shadowy line 
of old men in black mantles who had passed 
before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated 
into magi, turned out to be pensioners return- 
ing from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosi- 
ties, whom I had made the arch magician, had 
been for six years a resident of the place, and 
had decorated this final nestling-place of his old 
age with relics and rarities picked up in the 
course of his life. According to his own ac- 
count he had been somewhat of a traveller ; 
having been once in France, and very near 



72 XLbc Sketcb=':ffiooR 

making a visit to Holland. He regretted not 
having visited the latter country, *'as then he 
might have said he had been there." He was 
evidently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; 
keeping aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run 
of pensioners. His chief associates were a blind 
man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both 
which languages Hallum was profoundly igno- 
rant ; and a broken-down gentleman who had 
run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds 
left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, 
the marriage portion of his wife. lyittle Hallum 
seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of 
gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able 
to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. — The picturesque remnant of old times 
into which I have thus beguiled the reader is 
what is called the Charter House, originally the 
Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the 
remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas 
Sutton, being one of those noble charities set 
on foot by individual munificence, and kept up 
with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient 
times amidst the modern changes and innova- 
tions of London. Here eighty broken-down 
men, who had seen better days, are provided, 
in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a 



3Lon5on antiques 73 

yearly allowance for private expenses. They 
dine together, as did the monks of old, in the 
hall which had been the refectory of the origi- 
nal convent. Attached to the establishment is a 
school for forty-four boys. 

Stowe, whose work I have consulted on the 
subject, speaking of the obligations of the gray- 
headed pensioners, says : *'They are not to in- 
termeddle with any business touching the 
affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the 
service of God, and take thankfully what is 
provided for them, without muttering, murmur- 
ing, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long 
hair, colored boots, spurs, or colored shoes, 
feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or un- 
seemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital 
men to wear." ^^And in truth, '^ adds Stowe, 
happy are they that are so taken from the cares 
and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a 
place as these old men are ; having nothing to 
care for, but the good of their souls, to serve 
God and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been 
interested by the preceding sketch, taken 
down from my own observation, and who may 
wish to know a little more about the mysteries 
of London, I subjoin a modicum of local his- 
tory, put into my hands by an odd-looking old 



74 XTbe Sketcbs=jlSooh 

gentleman in a small brown wig and a snufF- 
colored coat, with whom I became acquainted 
shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I 
confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it 
was not one of those apocryphal tales often 
passed off upon inquiring travellers like my- 
self; and which have brought our general 
character for veracity into such unmerited re- 
proach. On making proper inquiries, however, 
I have received the most satisfactory assurances 
of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been 
told that he is actually engaged in a full and 
particular account of the very interesting region 
in which he resides ; of which the following 
may be considered merely as a foretaste. 




UTTlyK BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true ... I have a whole 
booke of cases lying by me, which if I should sette foorth. 
some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow-bell) 
would be out of charity with me. — Nashe. 

IN the centre of the great city of lyondon lies 
a small neighborhood, consisting of a clus- 
ter of narrow streets and courts, of very venera- 
ble and debilitated houses, which goes by the 
name of lyiTTi^E^ Britain. Christ Church School 
and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the 
west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north ; 
Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides 
it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the 
yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates 
it from Butcher Lane and the regions of New- 
gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded 
and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, 
swelling above the intervening houses of Pater- 
noster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria 
Lane, looks down with an air of motherly pro- 
tection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from hav- 
ing been, in ancient times, the residence of the 



7^ tTbe Sketcb=J8ooh 

Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, how- 
ever, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, 
and trade, creeping on at their heels, took 
possession of their deserted abodes. For some 
time Little Britain became the great mart of 
learning, and was peopled by the busy and pro- 
lific race of booksellers ; these also gradually 
deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great 
strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater- 
noster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where 
they continue to increase and multiply even at 
.the present day. 

But though thus falling into decline, Little 
Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. 
There are several houses ready to tumble down, 
the fronts of which are magnificently enriched 
with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, un- 
known birds, beasts, and fishes ; and fruits and 
flowers which it would perplex a natural- 
ist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate 
Street, certain remains of what were once spa- 
cious and lordly family mansions, but which 
have in later days been subdivided into several 
tenements. Here may often be found the 
family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery 
furniture, burrowing among the relics of anti- 
quated finery, in great rambling, time-stained 
apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cor- 
nices, aud enormous marble fireplaces. The 



Xlttle aSrltafn 77 

lanes and courts also contain many smaller 
houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your 
small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their 
claims to equal antiquity. These have their 
gable ends to the street ; great bow-windows, 
with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque car- 
vings, and low arched door-ways.^ 

In this most venerable and sheltered little 
nest have I passed several quiet years of exist- 
ence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of 
one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My 
sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, 
with small panels, and set off with a miscella- 
neous array of furniture. I have a particular 
respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed 
chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which 
bear the marks of having seen better days, and 
have doubtless figured in some of the old pal- 
aces of Ivittle Britain. They seem to me to 
keep together, and to look down with sovereign 
contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neigh- 
bors : as I have seen decayed gentry carry a 
high head among the plebeian society with 
which they were reduced to associate. The whole 
front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow- 
window, on the panes of which are recorded the 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting- com- 
munication has included, in his general title o^ lyittle 
Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong 
immediately to Cloth Fair. 



7^ XLbc SketcbrsjBook 

names of previous occupants for many genera- 
tions, mingled with scraps of very indifferent 
gentleman-like poetry, written in characters 
which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol 
the charms of many a beauty of I^ittle Britain, 
who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and 
passed away. As I am an idle personage, with 
no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regu- 
larly every week, I am looked upon as the 
only independent gentleman of the neighbor- 
hood ; and, being curious to learn the internal 
state of a community so apparently shut up 
within itself, I have managed to work my 
way into all the concerns and secrets of the 
place. 

Ivittle Britain may truly be called the heart's 
core of the city, the stronghold of true John 
Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was 
in its better days, with its antiquated folks and 
fashions. Here flourish in great preservation 
many of the holiday games and customs of 
yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat 
pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on 
Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; 
they send love-letters on Valentine 's-day, bum 
the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all 
the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in 
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry 



3L(ttle asrftafn 79 

maintain their grounds as the only true English 
wines, all others being considered vile outland- 
ish beverages. 

lyittle Britain has its long catalogue of city 
wonders, which its inhabitants consider the 
wonders of the world ; such as the great bell of 
St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it 
tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. 
Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions in 
the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. 
They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, 
and an old woman that lives in BuU-and-Mouth 
Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detect- 
ing stolen goods, and promising the girls good 
husbands. They are apt to be rendered un- 
comfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a 
dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon 
as a sure sign of death in the place. There are 
even many ghost stories current, particularly 
concerning the old mansion-houses ; in several 
of which it is said strange sights are sometimes 
seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full- 
bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the 
latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have 
been seen walking up and down the great waste 
chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are sup- 
posed to be the shades of the ancient proprie- 
tors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great 



8o XTbe Shetcb^ffioofe 

men. One of the most important of the former 
is a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of 
Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. 
He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavi- 
ties and projections, with a brown circle round 
each eye like a pair of horned spectacles. He is 
much thought of by the old women, who con- 
sider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has 
two or three stuifed alligators hanging up in his 
shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a 
great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and 
is much given to pore over alarming accounts 
of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and 
volcanic eruptions, which last phenomena he 
considers as signs of the times. He has always 
some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his 
customers with their doses, and thus at the 
same time puts both soul and body into an up- 
roar. He is a great believer in omens and pre- 
dictions, and has the prophecies of Robert 
Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man 
can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an 
unusually dark day ; and he shook the tail of 
the last comet over the heads of his customers 
and disciples until they were nearly frightened 
out of their wits. He has latelj^ got hold of a 
popular legend or prophecj^, on which he has 
been unusually eloquent. There has bee*?, a 
saying current among the ancient sibyls vha 



Xtttle mitnin 8i 

treasure up these things, that when the grass- 
hopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands 
with the dragon on the top of Bow Church 
steeple, fearful events would take place. This 
strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely 
come to pass. The same architect has been 
engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of 
the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; 
and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grass- 
hopper actually lie, cheek by jole in the yard of 
his workshop. 

*' Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to 
say, ^'may go star-gazing, and look for con- 
junctions in the heavens, but here is a con- 
junction on the earth, near at home, and under 
our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and 
calculations of astrologers." Since these por- 
tentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads 
together, wonderful events had already oc- 
curred. The good old king, notwithstanding 
that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at 
once given up the ghost ; another king had 
mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died 
suddenly, — another, in France, had been mur- 
dered ; there had been radical meetings in all 
parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at 
Manchester ; the great plot in Cato Street ; — 
and, above all, the queen had returned to Eng- 
land ! All these sinister events are recounted 



82 Zbc St^etcb*JBooFi 

by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a 
dismal shake of the head ; and being taken 
with his drugs, and associated in the minds of 
his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled 
serpents, and his own visage, which is a title- 
page of tribulation, they have spread a great 
gloom through the minds of the people of Little 
Britain, They shake their heads whenever they 
go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never 
expected any good to come of taking down that 
steeple, which in old times told nothing but 
glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and 
his cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substan- 
tial cheese-monger, who lives in a fragment of 
one of the old family mansions, and is as mag- 
nificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the 
midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he 
is a man of no little standing and importance ; 
and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, 
and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbur>\ 
His opinion is very much taken in affairs of 
state, having read the Sunday papers for the 
last half century, together with the Gentle- 
man^ s Magazine^ Rapin's *' History of Eng- 
land,'* and the Naval Chronicle, His head 
is stored with invaluable maxims which have 
borne the test of time and use for centuries. It 
is his firm opinion that ** it is a moral impossi- 



Xittle mUMn 83 

ble," so long as England is true to herself, that 
any thing can shake her ; and he has much to 
say on the subject of the national debt ; which, 
somehow or other, he proves to be a great 
national bulwark and blessing. He passed the 
greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little 
Britain, until of late years, when, having be- 
come rich, and grown into the dignity of a 
Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and 
see the world. He has therefore made several 
excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other 
neighboring towns, where he has passed whole 
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry 
the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage- 
coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches 
his hat as he passes ; and he is considered quite 
a patron at the coach office of the Goose and 
Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family 
have been very urgent for him to make an ex- 
pedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of 
those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and in- 
deed thinks himself too advanced in life to 
undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and 
divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one 
time in consequence of two rival '^Burial Socie- 
ties " being set up in the place. One held its 
meeting at the Swan and Horseshoe, and was 



84 Zbc Slftetcbs=JSook 

patronized by the cheese-monger ; the other at 
the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the 
apothecary ; it is needless to say that the latter 
was the most flourishing. I have passed an 
evening or two at each, and have acquired much 
valuable information, as to the best mode of being 
buried, the comparative merits of churchyards, 
together with divers hints on the subject of 
patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question 
discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of 
prohibiting the latter on account of their dura- 
bility. The feuds occasioned by these societies 
have happily died of late ; but they were for a 
long time prevailing themes of controversy, the 
people of Little Britain being extremely solici- 
tous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably 
in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a 
third of quite a different cast, which tends to 
throw the sunshine of good-humor over the 
whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at 
a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly 
publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing 
for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a 
most seductive bunch of grapes. The old edifice 
is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of 
the thirsty wayfarer ; such as * ' Truman, Han- 
bury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, and 
Brandy Vaults," '* Old Tom, Rum, and Com- 



Xlttle JlSrttaln 85 

pounds, etc." This indeed has been a temple 
of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. 
It has always been in the family of the Wag:- 
staffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved 
by the present landlord. It was much fre- 
quented by the gallants and cavaliers of the 
reign of Klizabeth, and was looked into now 
and then by the wits of Charles the Second's 
day. But what Wagstaff principally prides 
himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one 
of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one 
of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. 
This however is considered as rather a dubious 
and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions 
here goes by the name of '^ The Roaring I^ads 
of Little Britain." They abound in old catches, 
glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in 
the place, and not to be met with in any other 
part of the metropolis. There is a madcap 
undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; 
but the life of the club, and indeed the prime 
wit of Ivittle Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself 
His ancestors were all wags before him, and he 
has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs 
and jokes, which go with it from generation to 
generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper little 
fellow, with bandy legs and pot-belly, a red 
face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock 



86 Zbc Sketcb5=JSoo?i 

of gray liair behind. At the opening of every 
club-night he is called in to sing his ** Confession 
of Faith," which is the famous old drinking- 
trowl from ** Gammer Gurton's Needle." He 
sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he 
received it from his father's lips ; for it had been 
a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch 
of Grapes ever since it was written ; nay he 
affirms that his predecessors have often had the 
honor of singing it before the nobility and 
gentry at Christmas mummeries, when I^ittle 
Britain was in all its glory. ^ 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's " Confession of 
Faith " may not be familiar to the majority of readers, 
and as it is a specimen of the current songs of I^ittle 
Britain I subjoin it in its original ortho^aphy. I would 
observe that the whole club always join m the chorus 
with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of 
pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but l5i:le meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 

Booth foote and hand go colde. 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 

Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade. 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 



Xittle Srttatn 87 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a 
club-night, the shouts of merriment, the snatches 
of song, and now and then the choral bursts of 
half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from 
this jovial mansion. At such times the street is 
lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal 
to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, 
or snuffing up the steams of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce 
great stir and sensation in lyittle Britain ; these 
are St. Bartholomew's fair, and the I^ord Mayor's 
day. During the time of the fair, which is held 
in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is 
nothing going on but gossiping and gadding 

I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

lyoveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Kven as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Kven as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



Zbc S?ietcbs=J6ook 



about. The late quiet streets of I/ittle Britain 
are overrun with an irruption of strange figures 
and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and 
revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from 
the tap-room morning, noon, and night ; and at 
each window may be seen some group of boon 
companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one 
side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fond- 
ling, and prosing, and singing maudlin songs 
over their liquor. Kven the sober decorum of 
private families, which I must say is rigidly kept 
up at other times among my neighbors, is no 
proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such 
thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. 
Their brains are absolutely set madding with 
Punch and the Puppet-Show ; the Flying 
Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Bater ; the 
celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The 
children, too, lavish all their holiday money in 
toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house 
with the Ivilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and 
penny-whistles. 

But the lyord Mayor's day is the great anni- 
versary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by 
the inhabitants of lyittle Britain as the greatest 
potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six 
horses as the summit of human splendor ; and 
his procession, with all the sheriffs and alder- 
men in his train, as the grandest of earthly 



3Little aSritain 89 

pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the 
king himself dare not enter the city, without 
first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar and 
asking permission of the I^ord Mayor ; for if he 
did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing 
what might be the consequence. The man in 
armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is 
the city champion, has orders to cut down every- 
body that offends against the dignity of the 
city ; and then there is the little man with a vel- 
vet porringer on his head, who sits at the win- 
dow of the state coach, and holds the city sword, 
as long as a pike-staff — Odd's blood ! If he once 
draws that sword. Majesty itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty poten- 
tate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain 
sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual bar- 
rier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign 
invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him- 
self into the Tower, call in the train bands, and 
put the standing army of Beef-eaters under 
arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own 
habits, and its own opinions. Little Britain has 
long flourished as a sound heart to this great 
fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with 
considering it as a chosen spot, where the prin- 
ciples of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, 
like seed-corn, to renew the national character. 



9<> tCbe SFietcb^:Kooh 

when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I 
have rejoiced also in the general spirit of har- 
mony that prevailed throughout it ; for though 
there might now and then be a few clashes of 
opinion between the adherents of the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, and an occasional 
feud between the burial societies, yet these were 
but transient clouds, and soon passed away. 
The neighbors met with good-will, parted with 
a shake of the hand, and never abused each 
other except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junket- 
ing parties at which I have been present ; 
where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom- 
come-tickle-me, and other choice old games ; 
and where we sometimes had a good old English 
country-dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Cov- 
erley. Once a year also the neighbors would 
gather together, and go on a gypsy party to 
Epping Forest. It would have done any man's 
heart good to see the merriment that took place 
here as we banqueted on the grass under the 
trees. How we made the woods ring with 
bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff 
and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, 
the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff 
and hide-and-seek ; and it was amusing to see 
them tangled among the briers, and to hear a 
fine romping girl now and then squeak from 



Xtttle asdtafn 91 



among tlie bushes. The elder folks would 
gather round the cheese-monger and the apothe- 
cary, to hear them talk politics, for they gener- 
ally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, 
to pass away time in the country. They would 
now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in 
argument, but their disputes were always ad- 
justed by reference to a worthy old umbrella- 
maker in a double chin, who, never exactly 
comprehending the subject, managed somehow 
or other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher 
or historian, are doomed to changes and revolu- 
tions. Luxury and innovation creep in ; fac- 
tions arise ; and families now and then spring 
up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the 
whole system into confusion. Thus in later 
days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been 
grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity 
of manners threatened with total subversion by 
the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been 
among the most thriving and popular in the 
neighborhood ; the Miss Lambs were the belles 
of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to 
shut up shop and put his name on a brass plate 
on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of 
the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady 



9^ tEbc Sketcbs=JI5ook 

in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her 
great annual ball, on which occasion she wore 
three towering ostrich feathers on her head. 
The family never got over it ; they were imme- 
diately smitten with a passion for high life ; set 
up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace 
round the errand-boy's hat, and have been the 
talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood 
ever since. They could no longer be induced 
to play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's-buff ; they 
could endure no dances but quadrilles, which 
nobody ever heard of in lyittle Britain ; and 
they took to reading novels, talking bad French, 
and playing upon the piano. Their brother, 
too, who had been articled to an attorney, set 
up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto 
unknown in these parts ; and he confounded 
the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand 
ball, to which they neglected to invite any of 
their old neighbors ; but they had a great deal 
of genteel company from Theobald's Road, 
Red-Lion Square, and other parts toward the 
west. There were several beaux of their broth- 
er's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and 
Hatton Garden ; and not less than three alder- 
men's ladies with their daughters. This was 
not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little 



Xlttle :fi3ritain 93 

Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of 
whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the 
rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. 
The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen 
popping their nightcaps out at every window, 
watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and 
there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that 
kept a look-out from a house just opposite the 
retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised 
every one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, 
and the whole neighborhood declared they 
would have nothing more to say to the I^ambs. 
It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no en- 
gagements with her quality acquaintance, would 
give little humdrum tea-junketings to some of 
her old cronies, *' quite," as she would say, **in 
a friendly way " ; and it is equally true that her 
invitations were always accepted, in spite of all 
previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good 
ladies would sit and be delighted with the music 
of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to 
strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; 
and they would listen with wonderful interest 
to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plun- 
ket's family, of Portsokenward, and the Miss 
Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched- 
Friars ; but then they relieved their conscien- 
ces, and averted the reproaches of their con- 



94 Zbc Shetcbs=JiSooh 

federates, by canvassing at the next gossiping 
convocation every thing that had passed, and 
pulling the I^ambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be 
made fashionable was the retired butcher him- 
self. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness 
of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, 
with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair 
like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like 
his own beef It was in vain that the daughters 
always spoke of him as ^'the old gentleman," 
addressed him as **papa," in tones of infinite 
softness, and endeavored to coax him into a 
dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentle- 
manly habits. Do what they might, there was 
no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy na- 
ture would break through all their glozings. 
He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was ir- 
repressible. His very jokes made his sensitive 
daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing 
his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at 
two o'clock, and having a *' bit of sausage with 
his tea.'' 

He was doomed, however, to share the un- 
popularity of his family. He found his old 
comrades gradually growing cold and civil to 
him, no longer laughing at his jokes, and now 
and then throwing out a fling at *' some peo- 
ple, ' ' and a hint about ' * quality binding. ' ' This 



Xittle asritain 95 

both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; 
and his wife and daughters, with the consum- 
mate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advan- 
tage of the circumstance, at length prevailed 
upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and 
tankard at Wagstaff's ; to sit after dinner by 
himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he 
detested, — and to nod in his chair in solitary and 
dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting 
along the streets in French bonnets, with un- 
known beaux ; and talking and laughing so 
loud that it distressed the nerves of every good 
lady within hearing. They even went so far as 
to attempt patronage, and actually induced a 
French dancing-master to set up in the neigh- 
borhood ; but the worthy folks of Ivittle Britain 
took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, 
that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing- 
pumps, and decamp with such precipitation that 
he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea 
that all this fiery indignation on the part of the 
community was merely the overflowing of their 
zeal for good old Knglish manners, and their 
horror for innovation ; and I applauded the 
silent contempt they were so vociferous in ex- 
pressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and 
the Miss I^ambs. But I grieve to say that I 



96 ttbe Sketcbs=:fi3ooh 

soon perceived the infection had taken hold; 
and that my neighbors, after condemning, were 
beginning to follow their example. I overheard 
my landlady importuning her husband to let 
their daughters have one quarter at French and 
music, and that they might take a few lessons 
in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few 
Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, pre- 
cisely like those of the Miss I^ambs, parading 
about lyittle Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would 
gradually die away ; that the Lambs might move 
out of the neighborhood ; might die, or might 
run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and that 
quiet and simplicity might be again restored to 
the community. But unluckily a rival power 
arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow 
with a large jointure and a family of buxom 
daughters. The young ladies had long been re- 
pining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent fa- 
ther, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. 
Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, 
broke out into a blaze, and they openly took 
the field against the family of the butcher. It 
is true that the Lambs, having had the first 
start, had naturally an advantage of them in the 
fashionable career. They could speak a little 
bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, 
and had formed high acquaintances ; but the 



Xtttle JSritatn 97 

Trotters were not to be distanced. When the 
Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, 
the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as 
fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the 
Trotters were sure not to be behindhand ; and 
though they might not boast of as good com- 
pany, yet they had double the number, and 
were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided 
itself into fashionable factions, under the ban- 
ners of these two families. The old games of 
Pope-Joan, and Tom-come-tickle-me are en- 
tirely discarded ; there is no such thing as get- 
ting up an honest country-dance ; and on my at- 
tempting to kiss a young lady under the mistle- 
toe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed — 
the Miss Lambs having pronounced it " shock- 
ing vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out 
as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; 
the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- 
Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity 
of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions 
and internal dissensions, like the great empire 
whose name it bears ; and what will be the 
result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; 
though I apprehend that it will terminate in the 
total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 



98 ^be SUetcbs=JBook 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleas- 
ant to me. Being a single man, and, as I ob- 
served before, rather an idle good-for-nothing 
personage, I have been considered the only 
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand 
therefore in high favor with both parties, and 
have to hear all their cabinet-councils and 
mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to 
agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have 
committed myself most horribly with both par- 
ties, by abusing their opponents. I might man- 
age to reconcile this to my conscience, which is 
a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my 
apprehension — if the I^ambs and Trotters ever 
come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I 
am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat 
in time, and am actually looking out for some 
other nest in this great city, where old English 
manners are still kept up ; where French is 
neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and 
where there are no fashionable families of re- 
tired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a 
veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old 
house about my ears ; bid a long though a sor- 
rowful adieu to my present abode, and leave 
the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trot- 
ters to divide the distracted empire of Litti^e; 
Britaiist, 




STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would 

dream ; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this 
wide world which he can truly call his 
own, there is a momentary feeling of something 
like independence and territorial consequence, 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off 
his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the 
world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise 
or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to 
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very 
monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is 
his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed 
empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched 
from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is 
a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some 
way on a pilgrimage of existence, knows the 



Zbc Sketcb==:©ook 



importance of husbanding even morsels and 
moments of enjoyment. '* Shall I not take my 
ease in mine inn ? " thought I, as I gave the 
fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and 
cast a complacent look about the little parlor of 
the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just 
passing through my mind as the clock struck 
midnight from the tower of the church in which 
he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her 
smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, 
whether I had rung. I understood it as a 
modest hint that it was time to retire. My 
dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so 
abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, 
to avoid being deposed, and putting the Strat- 
ford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow com- 
panion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of 
Shakespeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quicken- 
ing mornings which we sometimes have in 
early spring; for it was about the middle of 
March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way ; the north wind had spent its 
last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from 
the west, breathing the breath of life into 
nature, and wooing every bud and flower tp 
burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 



StrattotD=son=B\?on 



I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrim- 
age. My first visit was to the house where 
Shakespeare was born, and where, according to 
tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft 
of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling- 
place of genius, which seems to delight in 
hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls 
of its squalid chambers are covered with names 
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims 
of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the 
prince to the peasant ; and present a simple 
but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
universal homage of mankind to the great poet 
of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, 
in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue 
anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks 
of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceed- 
ingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous 
in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all 
other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was 
the shattered stock of the very matchlock with 
which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poach- 
ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; 
which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir 
Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he 
played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with 
which Friar lyaurence discovered Romeo and 



Zbc Sl^etcb:=JSoot; 



Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample supply 
also of Shakespeare's mulberry - tree, which 
seems to have as extraordinary powers of self- 
multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; of 
which there is enough extant to build a ship of 
the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, how- 
ever, is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the 
chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, just 
behind what was his father's shop. Here he 
may many a time have sat when a boy, watch- 
ing the slowly revolving spit with all the 
longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listen- 
ing to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, deal- 
ing forth churchyard tales and legendary anec- 
dotes of the troublesome times of England. In 
this chair it is the custom of every one that 
visits the house to sit ; whether this be done 
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration 
of the bard I am at a loss to say ; I merely men- 
tion the fact ; and mine hostess privately as- 
sured me, that, though built of solid oak, such 
was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair 
had to be new bottomed at least once in three 
years. It is worthy of notice also, in the 
history of this extraordinary chair, that it par- 
takes something of the volatile nature of the 
Santa Casa of Ivoretto, or the flying chair of the 
Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few 



StrattotDs=on=Bvon 103 

years since to a northern princess, yet, strange 
to tell, it has found its way back to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, 
and am ever willing to be deceived, where the 
deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am 
therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and 
local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and 
would advise all travellers who travel for their 
gratification to be the same. What is it to us, 
whether these stories be true or false, so long as 
we can persuade ourselves into the belief of 
them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? 
There is nothing like resolute good-humored 
credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion 
I went even so far as willingly to believe the 
claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from 
the poet, when, luckily for my faith, she put 
into my hands a play of her own composition, 
which set all belief in her consanguinity at 
defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few 
paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried 
in the chancel of the parish church, a large and 
venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly 
ornamented. It stands on the banks of the 
Avon, on an embowered point, and separated 
by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; the 



I04 XLbc S\{ctcb^3Soo]\ 

river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks 
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An 
avenue of limes, the boughs of which are 
curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer 
an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate 
of the yard to the church porch. The graves 
are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, 
some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are 
half covered with moss, which has likewise 
tinted the reverend old building. Small birds 
have built their nests among the cornices and 
fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 
flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and 
cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the 
gray -headed sexton, Kdmonds, and accom- 
panied him home to get the key of the church. 
He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider him- 
self a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a 
few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering 
meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness, 
order, and comfort which pervade the humblest 
dwellings in this country. A low white-washed 
room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, 
served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of 



Sttditfotb^^on^Mvon 105 

pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the 
dresser. On an old oaken table, well nibbed 
and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer- 
book, and the drawer contained the family 
library, composed of about half a score of well- 
thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that im- 
portant article of cottage furniture, ticked on 
the opposite side of the room ; with a bright 
warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the 
old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the 
other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and 
deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one comer sat the old man's grand- 
daughter sewing, a pretty, blue-eyed girl, — and 
in the opposite corner was a superannuated 
crony, whom he addressed by the name of John 
Ange, and who, I found, had been his com- 
panion from childhood. They had played to- 
gether in infancy ; they had worked together in 
manhood ; they were now tottering about and 
gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a 
short time they will probably be buried together 
in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often 
that we see two streams of existence running 
thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is 
only in such quiet "bosom scenes " of life that 
they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anec- 
dotes of the bard from these ancient chron^ 



io6 trbc Shctcb=:fBook 

iclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. 
The long interval during which Shakespeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect has spread 
its shadow over his history ; and it is his good 
or evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his 
biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been em-, 
ployed as carpenters on the preparations for the 
celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remem- 
bered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, 
who superintended the arrangements, and who, 
according to the sexton, was '^a short punch 
man, very lively and bustling." John Ange 
had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's 
mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener 
of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights 
speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who 
shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shook 
his head when I mentioned her valuable collec- 
tion of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even ex- 
pressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been 
born in her house. I soon discovered that he 
looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a 
rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having com- 
paratively but few visitors. Thus it is that his- 
torians differ at the very outset, and mere peb- 



Strattor5*ons=2lvon 107 

bles make the stream of truth diverge into 
different channels even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the ave- 
nue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, 
highly ornamented, with carved doors of mas- 
sive oak. The interior is spacious, and the 
architecture and embellishments superior to 
those of most country churches. There are 
several ancient monuments of nobility and 
gentry, over some of which hang funeral 
escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal 
from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in 
the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- 
chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed win- 
dows, and the Avon, which runs at a short dis- 
tance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual 
murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where 
the bard is buried. There are four lines in- 
scribed on it, said to have been written by him- 
self, and which have in them something ex- 
tremely awful. If they are indeed his own, 
they show that solicitude about the quiet of the 
grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities 
and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosM here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 



io8 XLbc Qkctch^Mook 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is 
a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his 
death, and considered as a resemblance. The 
aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely 
arched forehead, and I thought I could read in 
it clear indications of that cheerful, social dispo- 
sition, by which he was as much characterized 
among his contemporaries as by the vastness 
of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an 
untimely death for the world ; for what fruit 
might not have been expected from the golden 
autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was 
from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flour- 
ishing in the sunshine of popular and royal 
favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not 
been without its effect. It has prevented the 
removal of his remains from the bosom of his 
native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since 
also, as some laborers were digging to make an 
adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to 
leave a vacant space, almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into 
his grave. No one, however, presumed to 
meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by 
a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or curi- 
ous, or any collector of relics, should be tempted 



&tvMoti>^on^%von 109 

to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
watch over the place for two days, until the 
vault was finished and the aperture closed 
again. He told me that he had made bold to 
look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin 
nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was some- 
thing, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his 
favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of 
his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a 
full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe 
of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to 
have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are 
other monuments around, but the mind refuses 
to dwell on any thing that is not connected 
with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place ; 
the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted 
by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but 
here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. 
As I trod the sounding pavement, there was 
something intense and thrilling in the idea, 
that, in very truth, the remains of Shakespeare 
were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a 
long time before I could prevail upon myself 
to leave the place ; and as I passed through 
the churchyard I plucked a branch from one 



^be SketcbssJSook 



of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have 
brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pil- 
grim's devotion, but I had a desire to see the 
old family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and 
to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, 
in company with some of the roisters of Strat- 
ford, committed his youthful offence of deer- 
stealing. In this hair-brained exploit we are 
told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to 
the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night 
in doleful captivity. When brought into the 
presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment 
must have been galling and humiliating ; for it 
so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough 
pasquinade, which was afSxed to the park gate 
at Charlecot.-^ 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the 
knight so incensed him, that he applied to a 
lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the 
laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lam- 
poon : 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse. 
If lowsie is Ivucy, as some voike miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself ,jreat ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If lyucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 



Strattorfe^onssBvon 



Shakespeare did not wait to brave tlie united 
puissance of a knight of the shire and a country 
attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant 
banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wan- 
dered away to Ivondon ; became a hanger-on to 
the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote 
for the stage ; and thus, through the persecu- 
tion of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an in- 
different wool-comber, and the world gained an 
immortal poet. He retained, however, for a 
long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the 
I^ord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his 
writings ; but in the sportive way of a good- 
natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the 
original justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly 
fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bear- 
ings, which, like those of the knight, had white 
luces ^' in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his 
biographers to soften and explain away this 
early transgression of the poet; but I look 
upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits nat- 
ural to his situation and turn of mind. Shake- 
speare, when young, had doubtless all the wild- 
ness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, 
and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vaga- 

* The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon 
about Charlecot. 



112 XLbc Shetcbs::fiSook 



bond. When left to itself it runs loosely and 
wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric and 
licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the 
gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural 
genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great 
poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortu- 
nately taken a literary bias, he might have as 
daringly transcended all civil as he has all 
dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when 
running like an unbroken colt, about the neigh- 
borhood of Stratford, he was to be found in the 
company of all kinds of odd, anomalous charac- 
ters ; that he associated with all the madcaps 
of the place, and was one of those unlucky 
urchins, at mention of whom all old men 
shake their heads, and predict that they will 
one day come to the gallows. To him the 
poaching in Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless 
a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his 
eager and, as yet, untamed imagination as 
something delightfully adventurous. ^ 

* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates 
in his youthful days maybe found in a traditionary anec- 
dote, picked ui) at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and 
mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
market-town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two socie- 
ties of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the ap- 
pellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the 
lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest 
of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were 
called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and in 



Stratf orDs^orts^apon 113 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its sur- 
rounding park still remain in the possession 
of the Ivucy family, and are peculiarly inter- 
esting, from being connected with this whim- 
sical but eventful circumstance in the scanty 
history of the bard. As the house stood but 
little more than three miles' distance from 
Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, 
that I might stroll leisurely through some of 
those scenes from which Shakespeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but 
Bnglish scenery is always verdant, and the sud- 
den change in the temperature of the weather 

the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in 
spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer will 
think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his 
sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the 
first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet 
legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely 
marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were 
forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed 
the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of 
Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and 
proposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying 
he had had enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still 
bear the epithets thus given them : the people of Peb- 
worth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and 
tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; 
and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



114 ^be &l^ctch^3oo\{ 

was surprising in its quickening effects upon 
the landscape. It was inspiring and animating 
to witness this first awakening of spring ; to 
feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; 
to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put 
forth the green sprout and the tender blade ; 
and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints 
and bursting buds, giving the promise of return- 
ing foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that 
little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be 
seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small 
gardens before the cottages. The bleating of 
the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the 
fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched 
eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a 
livelier note into his late querulous wintry 
strain ; and the lark, springing up from the 
reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away 
into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth tor- 
rents of melody. As I watched the little song- 
ster, mounting up higher and higher, until his 
body was a mere speck on the white bosom of 
the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his 
music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite 
little song in Cymbeline : — 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 



StrattorD=on:s2iv>on 115 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic 
ground : every thing is associated with the idea 
of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I 
fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where 
he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rus- 
tic life and manners, and heard those legendary 
tales and wild superstitions which he has woven 
like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his 
time, we are told, it was a popular amusement 
in winter evenings '' to sit round the fire, and 
tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lov- 
ers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheat- 
ers, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars. ' ' ^ 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of 
the Avon, which made a variety of the most 
fancy doublings and windings through a wide 
and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from 
among willows, which fringed its borders ; 
sometimes disappearing among groves, or be- 

* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates 
a host of these fireside fancies. '' And they have so fraid 
us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, 
hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the 
can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, cal- 
cars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin- 
good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, 
the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, 
hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless and such other bugs, 
that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



ii6 XLbc &\{Ctcb^:Boo\{ 

neath green banks ; and sometimes rambling 
out into full view, and making an azure sweep 
round a slope of meadow-land. This beautiful 
bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red 
Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills 
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft in- 
tervening landscape lies in a manner enchained 
in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, 
I turned oif into a footpath, which led along the 
borders of fields, and under hedgerows to a pri- 
vate gate of the park ; there was a stile, how- 
ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there be- 
ing a public right of way through the grounds. 
I delight in these hospitable estates, in which 
every one has a kind of property — at least as far 
as the footpath is concerned. It in some meas- 
ure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what 
is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus 
to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown 
open for his recreation. He breathes the pure 
air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the 
shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not 
the privilege of calling all he sees his own, he 
has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying 
for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of 
oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the 
growth of centuries. The wind sounded sol- 



Qtx^ttovt>^on^%von 117 

emnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree- 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening 
vista, with nothing to interrupt the view, but a 
distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalking like 
a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old 
avenues that has the effect of Gothic architec- 
ture, not merely from the pretended similarity 
of form, but from their bearing the evidence of 
long duration, and of having had their origin in 
a period of time with which we associate ideas 
of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the 
long-settled dignity, and proudly concentrated 
independence of an ancient family ; and I have 
heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend ob- 
serve, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces 
of modern gentry, that " money could do much 
with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there 
was no such thing as suddenly building up an 
avenue of oaks. " 

It was from wandering in early life among this 
rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes 
of the adjoining park of I^ullbroke, which then 
formed a part of the Ivucy estate, that some of 
Shakespeare's commentators have supposed he 
derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, 
and the enchanting woodland pictures in ''As 
You Like It." It is in lonely wanderings 



ii8 Zbc Q\{ctcb^3Boo\{ 

through such scenes that the mind drinks deep 
but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes 
intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of 
nature. The imagination kindles into revery 
and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and 
ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a 
mute and almost incommunicable luxury of 
thought. It was in some such mood, and per- 
haps under one of those very trees before me, 
which threw their broad shades over the grassy 
banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that 
the poet^s fancy may have sallied forth into 
that little song which breathes the very soul of 
a rural voluptuary : 

Under the green-wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a 
large building of brick, ^dth stone quoins, and 
is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, 
having been built in the first year of her reign. 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of 
the residence of a wealthy country-gentleman 



StrattotD*on=sB\?on 1 19 

of those days. A great gateway opens from the 
park into a kind of court-yard in front of the 
house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, 
and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation 
of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of out- 
post, and flanked by towers ; though evidently 
for mere ornament, instead of defence. The 
front of the house is completely in the old style ; 
with stone-shafted casements, a great bow-win- 
dow of heavy stonework, and a portal with 
armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At 
each corner of the building is an octagon tower, 
surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, 
makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping 
bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the 
house. Large herds of deer were feeding or 
reposing upon its borders ; and swans were 
sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I con- 
templated the venerable old mansion, I called 
to mind Falstaff 's encomium on Justice Shal- 
low's abode, and the affected indifference and 
real vanity of the latter : 

Falstaff. — You have a goodly dwelling and a ricli. 
Shallow. — Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars 
all, Sir John : — marry, good sir. 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the 
old mansion in the days of Shakespeare, it had 
now an air of stillness and solitude. The great 



Zbc Shetcb=J8ook 



iron gateway that opened into the court-yard 
was locked ; there was no show of servants 
bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly 
at me as I passed, being no longer harried by 
the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign 
of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, 
stealing with wary look and stealthy pace tow- 
ards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedi- 
tion. I must not omit to mention the carcass 
of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended 
against the barn wall, as it shows that the I^ucys 
still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, 
and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 
power which was so strenuously manifested in 
the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at 
length found my way to a lateral portal, which 
was the everyday entrance to the mansion. I 
was courteously received by a worthy old house- 
keeper, who, with the civility and communi- 
cativeness of her order, showed me the interior 
of the house. The greater part has undergone 
alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes 
and modes of living ; there is a fine old oaken 
staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature 
in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of 
the appearance it must have had in the days of 
Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; 
and at one end is a gallery in which stands an 



Stratfor5^on=:avon 



organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, 
which formerly adorned the hall of a country- 
gentleman, have made way for family portraits. 
There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated 
for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly 
the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the 
opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic 
bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out 
upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in 
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Ivucy 
family for many generations, some being dated 
1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarter- 
ings the three white luces, by which the charac- 
ter of Sir Thomas was first identified with that 
of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
first scene of the ''Merry Wives of Windsor," 
where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for 
having ''beaten his men, killed his deer, and 
broken into his lodge. " The poet had no doubt 
the offence of himself and his comrades in mind 
at the time, and we may suppose the family 
pride and vindictive threats of the puissant 
Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous in- 
dignation of Sir Thomas. 

Shallow. — Sir Hugh, persuade me not ; I will make a 
Star-Chamber m^atter of it ; if he were twenty John Fal- 
staffs, he shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, IBJsq. 

Slender.—ln the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
coram. 

Shallow. — Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 



122 ^be Sketcb*:^ook 

Slender. — Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, 
master parson ; who writes himself A rmig-ero in any bill, 
warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow.— Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these 
three hundred years. 

Slender. — All his successors gone before him have 
done 't, and all his ancestors that come after him may ; 
they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. . . . 

Shallow. — The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. — It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there 
is no fear of Got in a riot : the council, hear you, shall 
desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; 
take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. — Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the 
sword should end it ! 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a 
portrait by Sir Peter Ively, of one of the Lucy 
family, a great beauty of the time of Charles 
the Second ; the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed 
me that this lady had been sadly addicted to 
cards, and had gambled away a great portion 
of the family estate, among which was that 
part of the park where Shakespeare and his com- 
rades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost 
had not been entirely regained by the family 
even at the present day. It is but justice to 
this recreant dame to confess that she had a 
surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my atten- 
tion was a great painting over the fireplace, 
containing likenesses of Sir Thomas lyucy anl 



his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter 
part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought 
that it was the vindictive knight himself, but 
the housekeeper assured me that it was his son ; 
the only likeness extant of the former being an 
effigy upon his tomb in the church of the 
neighboring hamlet of Charlecot."^ The pic- 
ture gives a lively idea of the costume and 
manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in 
ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in 
them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master 
Slender would say, ''a cane-colored beard." 
His lady is seated on the opposite side of the 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the 
knight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of 
his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription, 
which, if really composed by her husband, places him 
quite f bove the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

" Here lyeth the I^ady Joyce Lucy, wife of Sir Thomas 
lyucy of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, 
Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye 
county of Worcester, Ksquire, who departed out of this 
wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye lo day of 
February in ye yeare of our Ivord God 1595 and of her age 
60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful 
servant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or 
vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband 
most faythful and true. In friendship most constant ; to 
what in trust was committed unto her most secret. In 
wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing 
up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her 
moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospi- 
tality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of 
none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that 
can be saide, a woman so garnished with virtue as not to 
be bettered and hardly ecjualled by any. As shee lived 
most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by 
him yt best knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

"Thomas I^uyce." 



t24 ^be Shetcbs=J3oofe 

picture, in wide rufF and long stomacher, and 
the children have a most venerable stiffness 
and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels 
are mingled in the family group ; a hawk 
is seated on his perch in the foreground, and 
one of the children holds a bow ; — all intimating 
the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and 
archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days. ^' 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture 
of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to 
meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, 
in which the country squire of former days was 
wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his 
rural domains ; and in which it might be pre- 
sumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned 
in awful state when the recreant Shakespeare 
was brought before him. As I like to deck out 
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased 

* Bishop Karle, speaking" of the country-gentleman of 
his time, observes : " His housekeeping is seen much in 
the different families of dogs, and serving-men attendant 
on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats in 
the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true 
burden of nobility, and is exceedinglj'' ambitious to seem 
delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with 
his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. 
Hastings, remarked : *' He kept all sorts of hounds that 
run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger, and had hawks of 
all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall 
was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of 
hawk, perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a 
broad hearth, paved with brick lay some of the choicest 
terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 



Stratfor&s=ons=2lt>on 125 

myself with the idea that this very hall had 
been the scene of the unlucky bard's examina- 
tion on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, 
surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, 
and blue-coated serving-men, with their badges ; 
while the luckless culprit was brought in, for- 
lorn and chopfallen, in the custody of game- 
keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and fol- 
lowed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I 
fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peep- 
ing from the half-opened doors ; while from the 
gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned 
gracefully forward, eying the youthful prisoner 
with that pity **that dwells in womanhood." 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, 
thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, 
was soon to become the delight of princes, the 
theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to 
the human mind, and was to confer immortality 
on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 
I was now invited by the butler to walk into 
the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the or- 
chard and arbor where the justice treated Sir 
John FalstafF and Cousin Silence *'to a last 
year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of 
caraways " ; but I had already spent so much of 
the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to 



126 tibe Shetcb^Sook 

give up any further investigations. When about 
to take my leave I was gratified by the civil en- 
treaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I 
would take some refreshment; an instance of 
good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we 
castle-hunte.rs seldom meet with in modern 
days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the 
present representative of the lyucys inherits 
from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his 
caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate 
in this respect, as witness his pressing instances 
toFalstafif: 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night . . . 
I will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses 
shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; 
you shall not beexcused . . . Some pigeons, Davy, a 
couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any 
pretty little kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old 
hall. My mind had become so completely pos- 
sessed by the imaginary scenes and characters 
connected with it, that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Every thing brought them 
as it were before my eyes ; and as the door of 
the dining-room opened, I almost expected to 
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quaver- 
ing forth his favorite ditty : 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 



Stratfot^s!on*Bvon 127 

On returning to my inn, I could not but re- 
flect on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able 
thus to spread the magic of his mind over the 
very face of nature ; to give to things and places 
a charm and character not their own, and to 
turn this ** working-day world" into a perfect 
fairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, 
whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but 
upon the imagination and the heart. Under 
the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been 
walking all day in a complete delusion. I had 
surveyed the landscape through the prism of 
poetry, which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with 
fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, con- 
jured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, 
had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld 
the fair Rosalind and her companion adven- 
turing through the woodlands ; and, above all, 
had been once more present in spirit with fat 
Jack Falstafl" and his contemporaries, from the 
august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle 
Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten 
thousand honors and blessings on the bard who 
has thus gilded the dull realities of life with in- 
nocent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and 
unbought pleasures in my checkered path ; and 
beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with 



t2S XLbc Sketcb=JSook 

all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my 
return, I paused to contemplate the distant 
church in which the poet lies buried, and could 
not but exult in the malediction, which has 
kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hal- 
lowed vaults. What honor could his name 
have derived from being mingled in dusty com- 
panionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons 
and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? 
What would a crowded corner in Westminster 
Abbey have been, compared with this reverend 
pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneli- 
ness as his sole mausoleum ? The solicitude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an 
over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is 
made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best 
and tenderest affections are mingled with these 
factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest 
of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there 
is no love, no admiration, no applause so sweet 
to the soul as that which springs up in his na- 
tive place. It is there that he seeks to be gath- 
ered in peace and honor among his kindred and 
his early friends. And when the weary heart 
and failing head begin to warn him that the 
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fond- 



StrattorD=ons=Bvon 



129 



ly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to 
sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his 
childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the 
youthful bard when, wandering forth in dis- 
grace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a 
heavy look upon his paternal home, could he 
have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name 
should become the boast and glory of his native 
place ; that his ashes should be religiously 
guarded as its most precious treasure ; and that 
its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed 
in tearful contemplation, should one day be- 
come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle 
landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every 
nation to his tomb ! 





TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered lyOgan's 
cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he 
came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

THBRB is something in the character and 
habits of the North American savage, 
taken in connection with the scenery over 
which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, 
boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless 
plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully strik- 
ing and sublime. He is formed for the wilder- 
ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature 
is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grap- 
ple with difficulties, and to support privations. 
There seems but little soil in his heart for the 
support of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we 
would but take the trouble to penetrate through 
that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, 
which lock up his character from casual observa- 
tion, we should find him linked to his fellow- 
man of civilized life by more of those sympathies 
and affections than are usually ascribed to him, 



ZvMte of ITnDian Cbaractct 131 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigi- 
nes of America, in the eariy periods of coloniza- 
tion, to be doubly wronged by the white men. 
They have been dispossessed of their hereditary 
possessions by mercenary and frequently wan- 
ton warfare ; and their characters have been 
traduced by bigoted and interested writers. 
The colonist often treated them like beasts of 
the forest ; and the author has endeavored to 
justify him in his outrages. The former found 
it easier to exterminate than to civilize ; the lat- 
ter, to vilify than to discriminate. The appella- 
tions of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient 
to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the 
poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted 
and defamed, not because they were guilty, but 
because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been 
properly appreciated or respected by the white 
man. In peace he has too often bfeen the dupe 
of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded 
as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was 
a question of mere precaution and convenience. 
Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by im- 
punity ; and little mercy is to be expected from 
him when he feels the sting of the reptile and 
is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged 



132 Zbc Sketcbs=JSooFi 

thus early, exist in common circulation at the 
present day. Certain learned societies have, it 
is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to 
investigate and record the real characters and 
manners of the Indian tribes ; the American 
government, too, has wisely and humanely ex- 
erted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbear- 
ing spirit towards them, and to protect them 
from fraud and injustice.^ The current opinion 
of the Indian character, however, is too apt to 
be formed from the miserable hordes which in- 
fest the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the 
settlements. These are too commonly com- 
posed of degenerate beings, corrupted and en- 
feebled by the vices of society, without being 
benelited by its civilization. That proud inde- 
pendence, which formed the main pillar of sav- 
age virtue, has been shaken down, and the 
whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits 
are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferi- 
ority, and their native courage cowed and 
daunted by the superior knowledge and power 
of their enlightened neighbors. Society has 

* The American government has been indefatigable in 
its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, 
and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, 
and religious knowledge. To protect them from the 
frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from 
them by individuals is permitted, nor is any person al- 
lowed to receive lands from them at present without the 
express sanction of government. These precautions are 
strictly enforced. 



ZvMte of ITnDlan Gbaracter 133 

advanced upon them like one of those wither- 
ing airs that will sometimes breed desolation 
over a whole region of fertility. It has ener- 
vated their strength, multiplied their diseases, 
and superinduced upon their original barbarity 
the low vices .of artifical life. It has given them 
a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has 
diminished their means of mere existence. It 
has driven before it the animals of the chase, 
who fly from the sound of the axe and the 
smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the 
depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden 
wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians 
on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and 
remnants of once powerful tribes, who have 
lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and 
sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. 
Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a 
canker of the mind unknown in savage life, 
corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and 
noble quality of their natures. They become 
drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusil- 
lanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the 
settlements, among spacious dwellings replete 
with elaborate comforts, which only render 
them sensible of the comparative wretchedness 
of their own condition. I^uxury spreads its 
ample board before their eyes ; but they are ex- 
cluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over th^ 



134 ^be SFietcb^sJBook 

fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its 
abundance : the whole wilderness has blossomed 
into a garden ; but they feel as reptiles that in- 
fest it. 

How different was their state while yet the 
undisputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were 
few, and the means of gratification within their 
reach. They saw every one around them shar- 
ing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 
feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No rooi then rose, but 
was open to the homeless stranger ; no smoke 
curled among the trees, but he was welcome to 
sit down by its fire, and join the hunter in his 
repast. "For," says an old historian of New 
England, "their life is so void of care, and they 
are so loving also, that they make use of those 
things they enjoy as common goods, and are 
therein so compassionate, that rather than one 
should starve through want, they would starve 
all ; thus they pass their time merrily, not re- 
garding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly 
of" Such were the Indians, whilst in the pride 
and energy of their primitive natures ; they re- 
sembled those wild plants, which thrive best in 
the shades of the forest, but shrink from the 
hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the in- 
fluence of the sun, 



XLvMe of IfnDian Cbaractcr 135 

In discussing the savage character, writers 
have been too prone to indulge in vulgar preju- 
dice and passionate exaggeration, instead of the 
candid temper of true philosophy. They have 
not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- 
stances in which the Indians have been placed, 
and the peculiar principles under which they 
have been educated. No being acts more rigid- 
ly from rule than the Indian. His whole con- 
duct is regulated according to some general 
maxims early implanted in his mind. The 
moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but 
few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the 
white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, 
and manners, but how many does he violate ? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the 
Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the 
treachery and wantonness with which, in time 
of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to 
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men 
with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, 
distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They 
seldom treat them with that confidence and 
frankness which are indispensable to real 
friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed 
not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition, which often prompt the Indian to 
hostility quicker than mere considerations of 
interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but 



136 ^be Sketcb^JBooh 

acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over 
so wide a surface as those of the white man ; 
but they run in steadier and deeper channels. 
His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are 
all directed towards fewer objects ; but the 
wounds inflicted on them are proportionably 
severe, and furnish motives of hostility which 
we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a 
community is also limited in number, and 
forms one great patriarchal family, as in an 
Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the 
injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of ven- 
geance is almost instantaneously diffused. One 
council fire is sufficient for the discussion and 
arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all 
the fighting men and sages assemble. Elo- 
quence and superstition combine to inflame the 
minds of the warriors. The orator awakens 
their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to 
a kind of religious desperation, by the visions 
of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exaspera- 
tions, arising from a motive peculiar to the 
Indian character, is extant in an old record of 
the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monu- 
ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had 
plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of 
some skins with which it had been decorated. 



ttraita of Ifn^ian Cbaracter 137 

The Indians are remarkable for the reverence 
which they entertain for the sepulchres of their 
kindred. Tribes that have passed generations 
exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when 
by chance they have been travelling in the 
vicinity, have been known to turn aside from 
the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accu- 
rate tradition, have crossed the country for 
miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in 
woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
anciently deposited ; and there have passed 
hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this 
sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose 
mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his 
men together, and addressed them in the 
following beautifully simple and pathetic 
harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian elo- 
quence, and an affecting instance of filial piety 
in a savage : 

*' When last the glorious light of all the sky 
was underneath this globe, and birds grew 
silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to 
take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, 
methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled ; and trembling at that 
doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud : * Behold, my 
son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts 
that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee 
warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to 



138 ^be SketcbssJSooh 

take revenge of those wild people who have de- 
faced my monument in a despiteful manner, 
disdaining our antiquities and honorable cus- 
toms? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like 
the common people, defaced by an ignoble 
race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores 
thy aid against this thievish people, who have 
newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, 
I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habita- 
tion.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all 
in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to 
get some strength, and recollect my spirits that 
were fled, and determined to demand your 
counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, 
as it tends to show how these sudden acts of 
hostility, which have been attributed to caprice 
and perfidy, may often arise from deep and 
generous motives, which our inattention to 
Indian character and customs prevents our 
properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the 
Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. 
This had its origin partly in policy and partly in 
superstition. The tribes, though sometimes 
called nations, were never so formidable in 
their numbers, but that the loss of several 
warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly 
the case when they had been frequently en- 



ZTratts of ITnMan Cbaractet 139 

gaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs 
in Indian liistory, where a tribe, that had long 
been formidable to its neighbors, has been 
broken up and driven away, by the capture and 
massacre of its principal fighting men. There 
was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor 
to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any 
cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. 
The Indians had also the superstitious belief, 
frequent among barbarous nations, and preva- 
lent also among the ancients, that the manes 
of their friends who had fallen in battle were 
soothed by the blood of the captives. The 
prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, 
are adopted into their families in the place of 
the slain, and are treated with the confidence 
and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so 
hospitable and tender is their entertainment, 
that when the alternative is offered them, they 
will often prefer to remain with their adopted 
brethren, rather than return to the home and 
the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their 
prisoners has been heightened since the coloni- 
zation of the whites. What was formerly a 
compliance with policy and superstition, has 
been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the 
white men are the usurpers of their ancient 



I40 trbe Sketcb=:Booh 

dominion, the cause of their degradation, and 
the gradual destroyers of their race. They go 
forth to battle, smarting with injuries and in- 
dignities which they have individually suffered, 
and they are driven to madness and despair by 
the wide-spreading desolation and the over- 
whelming ruin of European warfare. The 
whites have too frequently set them an ex- 
ample of violence, by burning their villages, 
and laying waste their slender means of sub- 
sistence ; and yet they wonder that savages do 
not show moderation and magnanimity towards 
those who have left them nothing but mere 
existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly 
and treacherous, because they use stratagem in 
warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this 
they are fully justified by their rude code of 
honor. They are early taught that stratagem 
is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it 
no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every 
advantage of his foe ; he triumphs in the su- 
perior craft and sagacity by which he has been 
enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. In- 
deed, man is naturally more prone to subtlety 
than open valor, owing to his physical weak- 
ness in comparison with other animals. They 
are endowed with natural weapons of defence ; 
with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; 



tCralte of ITnWan Cbatacter 141 

but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. 
In all his encounters -with these, his proper 
enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he 
perversely turns his hostility against his fellov/- 
man, he at first continues the same subtle mode 
of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most 
harm to our enemy with the least harm to our- 
selves ; and this of course is to be effected by 
stratagem. That chivalrous courage which in- 
duces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, 
and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the 
offspring of society, and produced by education. 
It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph 
of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repug- 
nance to pain, and over those yearnings after 
personal ease and security, which society has 
condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride 
and the fear of shame, and thus the dread of 
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of 
an evil which exists but in the imagination. It 
has been cherished and stimulated also by 
various means. It has been the theme of spirit- 
stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it 
the splendors of fiction ; and even the historian 
has forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and 
broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in 
its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants 



142 ^be Sketcbs=JBooh 

have been its reward ; monuments, on which 
art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its 
treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a 
nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus arti- 
ficially excited, courage has risen to an extra- 
ordinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and, 
arrayed in all the glorious *'pomp and circum- 
stance of war, " this turbulent quality has even 
been able to eclipse many of those quiet but 
invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the 
human character, and swell the tide of human 
happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the 
defiance of danger and pain, the life of the In- 
dian is a continual exhibition of it. He lives in 
a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril 
and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or 
rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties 
and to give an interest to his existence. Sur- 
rounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of war- 
fare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always 
prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons 
in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful 
singleness through the solitudes of ocean ; as 
the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and 
wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless 
fields of air, — so the Indian holds his -course, 
silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the 
boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expe- 



^ralte of IFuDtan Gbaracter 143 

ditions may vie in distance and danger with 
the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of 
the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, 
exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of 
lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles 
to his wanderings ; in his light canoe of bark 
he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and 
darts with the swiftness of an arrow, down the 
roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsist- 
ence is snatched from the midst of toil and 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and 
dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the 
spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo, 
and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can sur- 
pass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, 
and the fortitude with which he sustains its 
cruellest infliction. Indeed we here behold him 
rising superior to the white man, in conse- 
quence of his peculiar education. The latter 
rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; 
the former calmly contemplates its approach, 
and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied 
torments of surrounding foes and the protracted 
agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunt- 
ing his persecutors, and provoking their in- 
genuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames 
prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks 



144 G^be SRetcb:=JSoofe 

from the sinews, lie raises his last song of tri- 
umph, breathing the defiance of an uncon- 
quered heart, and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the 
early historians have overshadowed the charac- 
ters of the unfortunate natives, some bright 
gleams occasionally break through, which throw 
a degree of melancholy lustre on their memo- 
ries. Facts are occasionally to be met with in 
the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, 
though recorded with the coloring of prejudice 
and bigotry, yet speak for themselves, and will 
be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when 
prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian 
wars in New England, there is a touching ac- 
count of the desolation carried into the tribe of 
the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from 
the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butch- 
ery. In one place we read of the surprisal of 
an Indian fort in the night, when the wig- 
wams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable 
inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting 
to escape, " all being despatched and ended in 
the course of an hour." After a series of simi- 
lar transactions, ^' our soldiers, '^ as the historian 
piously observes, '* being resolved by God's as- 
sistance to make a final destruction of them,' V 



XLvnits of ITnDtan Cbaractet 145 

the unhappy savages being hunted from their 
homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and 
sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad rem- 
nant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives 
and children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sul- 
len by despair, with hearts bursting with grief 
at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits 
galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their 
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the 
hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death 
to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded 
in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape im- 
practicable. Thus situated, their enemy ** plied 
them with shot all the time, by which means 
many were killed and buried in the mire.*' In 
the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of 
day, some few broke through the besiegers and 
escaped into the woods : *' the rest were left to 
the conquerors, of which many were killed in the 
swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in 
their self-willedness and madness, sit still and 
be shot through or cut to pieces,'' than implore 
for mercy. When the day broke upon this 
handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, *'saw 
several heaps of them sitting close together, 
upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden 



146 Zbc Qkctcb=^3oo\{ 

with ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time, put- 
ting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, 
within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those 
that were found dead, many more were killed 
and sunk into the mire, and never were minded 
more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, 
without admiring the stern resolution, the un- 
bending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that 
seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive 
feelings of human nature ? When the Gauls 
laid waste the city of Rome, they found the 
senators clothed in their robes, and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this 
manner they suffered death without resistance 
or even supplication. Such conduct was, in 
them, applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in 
the hapless Indian, it was reviled as obstinate 
and sullen ! How truly are we the dupes of 
show and circumstance ! How different is vir- 
tue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, 
from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing 
obscurely in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pict- 
ures. The eastern tribes have long since disap- 
peared; the forests that sheltered them have 
been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of 
them in the thickly settled States of New Bng- 



G^ralts of UnDian Gbaracter 147 

land, excepting here and there the Indian name 
of a village or stream. And such must, sooner 
or later, be the fate of those other tribes which 
skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been 
inveigled from their forests to mingle in the 
wars of white men. In a little while, and they 
will go the way that their brethren have gone 
before. The few hordes which still linger about 
the shores of Huron and Superior, and the 
tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share 
the fate of those tribes that once spread over 
Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it 
along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the bor- 
ders of the Susquehanna ; and of those vari- 
ous nations that flourished about the Potomac 
and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the 
forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They 
will vanish like a vapor from the face of the 
earth ; their very history will be lost in forget- 
fulness ; and '' the places that now know them 
will know them no more forever. ' ' Or if, per- 
chance, some dubious memorial of them should 
survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of 
the poet, to people in imagination his glades 
and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan 
deities of antiquity. But should he venture 
upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretch- 
edness ; should he tell how they were invaded, 



148 3^be SKetcb^asooR 

corrupted, despoiled, driven from tlieir native 
abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and 
sent dov/n with violence and butchery to the 
grave, posterity will either turn with horror 
and incredulity from the tale, or blush with in- 
dignation at the inhumanity of their forefath- 
ers. * * We are driven back, ' ' said an old warrior, 
** until we can retreat no farther ; our hatchets 
are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are 
nearly extinguished ; a little longer, and the 
white man will cease to persecute us — for we 
shall cease to exist ! " 





PHIIvIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touch 'd, but never shook ; 
Train 'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

IT is to be regretted that those early writers, 
who treated of the discovery and settlement 
of America, have not given us more particular 
and candid accounts of the remarkable charac- 
ters that flourished in savage life. The scanty 
anecdotes which have reached us are full of pe- 
culiarity and interest ; they furnish us with 
nearer glimpses of human nature, and show 
what man is in a comparatively primitive state, 
and what he owes to civilization. There is 
something of the charm of discovery in light- 
ing upon these wild and unexplored tracts of 
human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the 
native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiv- 



ISO ^be Sketcbs^Boo?^ 

ing those generous and romantic qualities whicli 
have been artificially cultivated by society, 
vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude 
magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and in- 
deed almost the existence, of man depends so 
much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is 
constantly acting a studied part. The bold and 
peculiar traits of native character are refined 
away, or softened down by the levelling influ- 
ence of what is termed good breeding ; and he 
practises so many petty deceptions, and affects 
so many generous sentiments, for the purpose 
of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish 
his real from his artificial character. The In- 
dian, on the contrary, free from the restraints 
and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys 
the impulses of his inclination or the dictates 
of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of 
his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, 
where every roughness is smoothed, every 
bramble eradicated, and where the eye is de- 
lighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet sur- 
face ; he, however, who would study nature in 
its wildness and variety, must plunge into the 
forest, must explore the glen, must stem the 
torrent, and dare the precipice. 



Ipbillp ot ipol^anoftct 151 

These reflections arose on casually looking 
through a volume of early colonial history, 
wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, the 
outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the 
settlers of New England. It is painful to per- 
ceive even from these partial narratives, how 
the footsteps of civilization may be traced in 
the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the 
colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of 
conquest ; how merciless and exterminating 
was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at 
the idea, how many intellectual beings were 
hunted from the earth, how many brave and 
noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, were 
broken down and trampled in the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Phii^ip oi^ Pokanoke^t, 
an Indian warrior, whose name was once a 
terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecti- 
cut. He was the most distinguished of a num- 
ber of contemporary Sachems who reigned over 
the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampano- 
ags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time 
of the first settlement of New England ; a band 
of native untaught heroes, who made the most 
generous struggle of which human nature is 
capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause 
of their country, without a hope of victory or a 
thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
poetry, and fit subjects for local story and 



152 Zbc SUetcb:=:fiSooft 

romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any 
authentic traces on the page of history, but 
stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight 
of tradition.* 

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers 
are called by their descendants, first took refuge 
on the shores of the New World, from the 
religious persecutions of the Old, their situation 
was to the last degree gloomy and dishearten- 
ing. Few in number, and that number rapidly 
perishing away through sickness and hard- 
ships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and 
savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an 
almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an 
ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled 
with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved 
them from sinking into despondency but the 
strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In 
this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- 
sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a 
powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent 
of country. Instead of taking advantage of the 
scanty number of the strangers, and expelling 
them from his territories, into which they had 
intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for 
them a generous friendship, and extended 

* while correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the 
author is informed that a celebrated English poet has 
nearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip of 
Pokanoket. 



l^biiip of ipokanoket 153 

towards them the rights of primitive hospitality. 
He came early in the spring to their settlement 
of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful 
of followers, entered into a solemn league of 
peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the 
soil, and promised to secure for them the good- 
will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said 
of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity 
and good faith of Massasoit have never been 
impeached. He continued a firm and magnani- 
mous friend of the white men ; suffering them 
to extend their possessions, and to strengthen 
themselves in the land ; and betraying no jeal- 
ousy of their increasing power and prosperity. 
Shortly before his death he came once more to 
New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the 
purpose of renewing the covenant of peace, and 
of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect 
the religion of his forefathers from the en- 
croaching zeal of the missionaries ; and stipu- 
lated that no further attempt should be made to 
draw off his people from their ancient faith ; 
but, finding the Knglish obstinately opposed to 
any such condition, he mildly relinquished the 
demand. Almost the last act of his life was to 
bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as 
they had been named by the E)nglish), to the 
residence of a principal settler, recommending 



154 ^be Sketcb^JBook 

mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreat- 
ing that the same love and amity which had 
existed between the white men and himself 
might be continued afterwards with his chil- 
dren. The good old Sachem died in peace, 
and was happily gathered to his fathers before 
sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children re- 
mained behind to experience the ingratitude of 
white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. 
He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and 
proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and 
dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial 
conduct of the strangers excited his indigna- 
tion ; and he beheld with uneasiness their ex- 
terminating wars with the neighboring tribes. 
He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, 
being accused of plotting with the Narragansets 
to rise against the E^nglish and drive them from 
the land. It is impossible to say whether this 
accusation was warranted by facts or was 
grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, 
however, by the violent and overbearing meas- 
ures of the settlers, that they had by this time 
begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of 
their power, and to grow harsh and inconsid- 
erate in their treatment of the natives. They 
despatched an armed force to seize upon Alex- 
ander, and to bring him before their courts. 



©billp of ©olftanoftet 155 

He was traced to his woodland haunts, and sur- 
prised at a hunting-house, where he was repos- 
ing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after 
the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his 
arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign 
dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of 
this proud savage, as to throw him into a 
raging fever. He was permitted to return 
home, on condition of sending his son as a 
pledge for his reappearance ; but the blow he 
had received was fatal, and before he had 
reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies 
of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, 
or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, 
on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious 
temper. These, together with his well-known 
energy and enterprise, had rendered him an 
object of great jealousy and apprehension, and 
he was accused of having always cherished a 
secret and implacable hostility towards the 
whites. Such may very probably, and very 
naturally, have been the case. He considered 
them as originally but mere intruders into the 
country, who had presumed upon indulgence, 
and were extending an influence baneful to 
savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
countrymen melting before them from the face 
of the earth ; their territories slipping from 



156 Zbc Sketcbs=JSook 

their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, 
scattered, and dependent. It may be said that 
the soil was originally purchased by the set- 
tlers ; but who does not know the nature of 
Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloni- 
zation? The Europeans always made thrifty 
bargains through their superior adroitness in 
traffic, and they gained vast accessions of terri- 
tory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncul- 
tivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the 
refinements of law, by which an injury may be 
gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts 
are all by which he judges ; and it was enough 
for Philip to know that before the intrusion of 
the Europeans his countrymen were lords of 
the soil, and that now they were becoming 
vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of 
general hostility, and his particular indignation 
at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed 
them for the present, renewed the contract with 
the settlers, and resided peaceably for many 
years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the 
English, Mount Hope,"^ the ancient seat of do- 
minion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which 
were at first but vague and indefinite, began to 
acquire form and substance ; and he was at 
length charged with attempting to instigate the 

* New Bristol, Rhode Island. 



Ipbllip of ipolianofeet 157 

various eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a 
simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of 
their oppressors. It is diflScult at this distant 
period to assign the proper credit due to these 
early accusations against the Indians. There 
was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to 
acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that 
gave weight and importance to every idle tale. 
Informers abounded v/here talebearing met with 
countenance and reward; and the sword was 
readily unsheathed when its success was certain, 
and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against 
Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a 
renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had 
been quickened by a partial education which 
he had received among the settlers. He 
changed his faith and his allegiance two or 
three times, with a facility that evinced the 
looseness of his principles. He had acted for 
some time as Philip's confidential secretary and 
counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and 
protection. Finding, however, that the clouds 
of adversity were gathering round his patron, 
he abandoned his service and went over to the 
whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, 
charged his former benefactor with plotting 
against their safety. A rigorous investigation 
took place. Philip and several of his subjects 



158 XLbc Sketcb^Sook 

submitted to be examined, but nothing was 
proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too far to retract ; they had pre- 
viously determined that Philip was a dangerous 
neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their dis- 
trust ; and had done enough to insure his hos- 
tility ; according, therefore, to the usual mode 
of reasoning in these caces, his destruction had 
become necessary to their security. Sausaman, 
the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards 
found dead, in a pond, having fallen a victim to 
the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one 
of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, 
were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 
mony of one very questionable witness, were 
condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignomini- 
ous punishment of his friend, outraged the 
pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. 
The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet 
awakened him to the gathering storm, and he 
determined to trust himself no longer in the 
power of the white men. The fate of his in- 
sulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled 
in his mind ; and he had a further v/aming in 
the tragical story cf Miantonimo, a great 
Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after man- 
fully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the 
colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 



pbiltp of pofianoket 159 

conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, 
had been perfidiously despatched at their insti- 
gation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting 
men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he 
could to join his cause ; sent the women and 
children to the Narragansets for safety ; and 
wherever he appeared, was continually sur- 
rounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of 
distrust and irritation, the least spark was 
sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, 
having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev- 
ous, and committed various petty depredations. 
In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired 
on and killed by a settler. This was the signal 
for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to re- 
venge the death of their comrade, and the 
alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth 
colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and 
melancholy times we meet with many indica- 
tions of the diseased state of the public mind. 
The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
wildness of their situation, among trackless 
forests and savage tribes, had disposed the col- 
onists to superstitious fancies, and had filled 
their imaginations with the frightful chimeras 
of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much 
given to a belief in omens. The troubles with 



i6o the Sketcb:=JSooK 

Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are 
told, by a variety of those awful warnings 
which forerun great and public calamities. The 
perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the 
air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon 
by the inhabitants as a ** prodigious apparition.** 
At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in 
their neighborhood, *'was heard the report of 
a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the 
earth and a considerable echo." ^ Others were 
alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the 
discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed 
to whistle past them, and the noise of drums 
resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to 
the westward ; others fancied that they heard 
the galloping of horses over their heads ; and 
certain monstrous births, which took place 
about the time, filled the superstitious in some 
towns with doleful forebodings. Many of 
these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena : to the north- 
ern lights which occur vividly in those lati- 
tudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; 
the casual rushing of a blast through the top 
branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees 
or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth 
sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike 
the ear so strangely amidst the profound still- 

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History.- 



Ipbtlip ot ipoFiano?^et i6i 

ness of woodland solitudes. These may have 
startled some melancholy imaginations, may 
have been exaggerated by the love for the mar- 
vellous, and listened to with that avidity with 
which we devour whatever is fearful and myste- 
rious. The universal currency of these super- 
stitious fancies, and the grave record made of 
them by one of the learned men of the day, are 
strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was 
such as too often distinguishes the warfare be- 
tween civilized men and savages. On the part 
of the whites it was conducted with superior 
skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of 
the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights 
of their antagonists ; on the part of the Indians 
it was waged with the desperation of men fear- 
less of death, and who had nothing to expect 
from peace but humiliation, dependence, and 
decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us 
by a worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells 
with horror and indignation on every hostile 
act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst 
he mentions with applause the most sanguinary 
atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a 
murderer and a traitor ; without considering 
that he was a true-born prince, gallantly fight- 
ing at the head of his subjects to avenge the 



i62 Zbc Sl^etcb*:fl5ook 

wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering 
power of his line, and to deliver his native land 
from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous re- 
volt, if such had really been formed, was worthy 
of a capacious mind, and, had it not been pre- 
maturely discovered, might have been over- 
whelming in its consequences. The war that 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere 
succession of casual exploits and unconnected 
enterprises. Still it sets forth the military 
genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and 
wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate nar- 
rations that have been given of it, we can arrive 
at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigor- 
ous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt 
of suffering and hardship, and an unconquera- 
ble resolution, that command our sympathy and 
applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount 
Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those 
vast and trackless forests that skirted the settle- 
ments, and were almost impervious to any 
thing but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he 
gathered together his forces, like a storm accu- 
mulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of 
the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge 
at a time and place least expected, carrying 
havoc and dismay into the villages. . There 



pbilip ot ipo?^anoket 163 

were now and then indications of these impend- 
ing ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists 
with awe and apprehension. The report of a 
distant gun would perhaps be heard from the 
solitary woodland, where there was known to 
be no white man ; the cattle which had been 
wandering in the woods would sometimes re- 
turn home wounded ; or an Indian or two would 
be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, 
and suddenly disappearing ; as the lightning 
will sometimes be seen playing silently about 
the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the 
tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even sur- 
rounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often 
escaped almost miraculously from their toils, 
and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost 
to all search or inquiry until he again emerged 
at some far distant quarter, laying the country 
desolate. Among his strongholds were the 
great swamps or morasses, which extend in 
some parts of New Bngland ; composed of loose 
bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed with thick- 
ets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and 
mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed 
by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain foot- 
ing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds 
rendered them almost impenetrable to the white 
man, though the Indian could thrid their laby- 



i64 Zbc Sketcb^JSook 

rinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of 
these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, -vras 
Philip once driven with a band of his followers. 
The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing 
to venture into these dark and frightful re- 
cesses, where they might perish in fens and 
miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. 
They therefore invested the entrance to the 
Neck, and began to build a fort, with the 
thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and 
his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an 
arm of the sea, in the dead of the night, leaving 
the women and children behind ; and escaped 
away to the westward, kindling the flames of 
war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the 
Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony 
of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of univer- 
sal apprehension. The mystery in which he 
was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He 
was an evil that walked in darkness, whose 
coming none could foresee, and against which 
none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. 
Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; 
for, in whatever part of the widely extended 
frontier an irruption from the forest took place, 
Philip was said to be its leader. Many super- 
stitious notions also circulated concerning him. 



Ipblltp o( ipoftanoftct 165 

He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be 
attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, 
whom he consulted, and who assisted him by 
her charms and incantations. This indeed was 
frequently the case with Indian chiefs, either 
through their own credulity, or to act upon that 
of their followers ; and the influence of the 
prophet and the dreamer over Indian supersti- 
tion has been fully evidenced in recent instances 
of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from 
Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate con- 
dition. His forces had been thinned by repeat- 
ed fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his 
resources. In this time of adversity he found 
a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem 
of all the Narragansets. He was the son and 
heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem who, as 
already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal 
of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately 
put to death at the perfidious instigations of 
the settlers. ** He was the heir," says the old 
chronicler, *' of all his father's pride and inso- 
lence, as well as of his malice towards the Eng- 
lish " ; he certainly was the heir of his insults 
and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his 
murder. Though he had forborne to take an 
active part in this hopeless war, yet he received 
Philip and his broken forces with open arms^ 



i66 Zbc Sketcb=:fl3ook 

and gave them the most generous countenance 
and support. This at once drew upon him the 
hostility of the Knglish ; and it was determined 
to strike a signal blow that should involve both 
the Sachems in one common ruin. A great 
force was, therefore, gathered together from 
Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
was sent into the Narraganset country in the 
depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen 
and leafless, could be traversed with compara- 
tive facility, and would no longer afford dark 
and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had con- 
veyed the greater part of his stores, together with 
the old, the infirm, the women, and the chil- 
dren of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he 
and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of 
their forces. This fortress, deemed by the In- 
dians impregnable, was situated upon a rising 
mound, or kind of island, of ^ye or six acres, in 
the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with 
a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior 
to what is usually displayed in Indian fortifica- 
tion, and indicative of the martial genius of 
these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the Knglish 
penetrated, through December snows, to this 
stronghold, and came upon the garrison by 
surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. 



pblllp ot ipohanoFiet 167 

The assailants were repulsed in their first at- 
tack, and several of their bravest officers were 
shot down in the act of storming the fortress 
sword in hand. The assault was renewed with 
greater success. A lodgment was effected. The 
Indians were driven from one post to another. 
They disputed their ground inch by inch, 
fighting with the fury of despair. Most of 
their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a 
long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, 
with a handful of surviving warriors, retreated 
from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets 
of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the 
fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of 
the old men, the women, and the children per- 
ished in the flames. This last outrage overcame 
even the stoicism of the savage. The neighbor- 
ing woods resounded with the yells of rage and 
despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they 
beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and 
heard the agonizing cries of their wives and off- 
spring. "The burning of the wigwams," says 
a contemporary writer, *'the shrieks and cries 
of the women and children, and the yelling of 
the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and af- 
fecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of 
the soldiers. ' ' The same writer cautiously adds : 
**They were in much doubt th^^n^ and afterwards 



i68 zbc Q\{ctcb^:Boof{ 

seriously inquired, whether burning their ene- 
mies alive could be consistent with humanity 
and the benevolent principles of the Gospel." ^ 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet 
is worthy of particular mention ; the last scene 
of his life is one of the noblest instances on 
record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by 
this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to 
the hapless cause which he had espoused, he re- 
jected all overtures of peace, offered on condi- 
tion of betraying Philip and his followers, and 
declared that ' ' he would fight it out to the last 
man, rather than become a servant to the Eng- 
lish." His home being destroyed, his country 
harassed and laid waste by the incursions of 
the conquerors, he was obliged to wander away 
to the banks of the Connecticut, where he 
formed a rallying point to the whole body of 
western Indians, and laid waste several of the 
Knglish settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazard- 
ous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to 
penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount 
Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for the 
sustenance of his troops. This little band of 
adventurers had passed safely through the 
Pequod country, and were in the centre of the 

5* MvS, of the Rev, W. Ruggles, 



lObflip of ipokanohet 169 

Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near 
Pawtucket River, when an alarm, was given of 
an approaching enemy. Having but seven 
men by him at the time, Canonchet despatched 
two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, to 
bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of 
Knglish and Indians rapidly advancing, they 
fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, 
without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the 
same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and afright, told 
him that the whole of the British army was at 
hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but 
immediate flight. He attempted to escape 
round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of 
the fleetest of the Knglish. Finding the swift- 
est pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, 
first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and 
belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him 
to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness 
of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his 
foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep 
as to wet his gun. This accident so struck him 
with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, 
**his heart and his bowels turned within him. 



i7o Zbc Sketcb:=:fi3ooh 

and lie became like a rotten stick, void of 
strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, 
being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short 
distance of the river, he made no resistance, 
though a man of great vigor of body and bold- 
ness of heart. But on being made prisoner the 
whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and 
from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes 
given by his enemies, nothing but repeated 
flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. 
Being questioned by one of the English who 
first came up with him, and who had not at- 
tained his twenty-second year, the proud 
warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his 
youthful countenance, replied ; **You are a 
child ; you cannot understand matters of war ; 
let your brother or your chief come, — him will 
I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him 
of his life, on condition of submitting with his 
nation to the English, yet he rejected them 
with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects; 
saying, that he knew none of them would com- 
ply. Being reproached with his breach of faith 
towards the whites, his boast that he would 
not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of 
a Wampanoag' s nail, and his threat that he 



Ipbilfp of pokanoftet 171 

would burn the Buglisli alive in their houses, 
he disdained to justify himself, haughtily an- 
swering that others were as forward for the war 
as himself, and ''he desired to hear no more 
thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a 
fidelity to his cause and his friend, might have 
touched the feelings of the generous and the 
brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being 
towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity 
no law, religion no compassion ; — he was con- 
demned to die. The last words of him that are 
recorded are worthy of the greatness of his soul. 
When sentence of death was passed upon him, 
he observed " that he liked it well, for he should 
die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken 
any thing unworthy of himself. ' ' His enemies 
gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot 
at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his 
own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and 
the death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the 
fortunes of King Philip. He made an ineffectual 
attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring 
up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though 
possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts were counteracted by the superior arts 
of his enlightened enemies, and the terror 
of their warlike skill began to subdue the reso- 



172 tLbc Sketcb:*J8ook 

lution of tlie neighboring tribes. The unfor- 
tunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around 
him. Some were suborned by the whites; 
others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and 
to the frequent attacks by which they were har- 
assed. His stores were all captured ; his chosen 
friends were swept away from before his eyes ; 
his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister 
was carried into captivity ; and in one of his 
narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his 
beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the 
enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, *' being 
thus gradually carried on, his misery was not 
prevented, but augmented thereby ; being him- 
self made acquainted with the sense and ex- 
perimental feeling of the captivity of his chil- 
dren, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, 
bereavement of all family relations, and being 
stripped of all outward comforts, before his own 
life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his 
own followers began to plot against his life, 
that by sacrificing him they might purchase 
dishonorable safety. Through treachery a num- 
ber of his faithful adherents, the subjects of 
Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a 
near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, wer6> 
betrayed into the hands of the enemy. . Weta 



Ipbtllp of ipoftanoftet 173 

moe was among them at the time, and at- 
tempted to make her escape by crossing a neigh- 
boring river : either exhausted by swimming, 
or starved by cold and hunger, she was found 
dead and naked near the water-side. But per- 
secution ceased not at the grave. ISven death, 
the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked 
commonly cease from troubling, was no protec- 
tion to this outcast female, whose great crime 
was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her 
friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly 
and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed 
from the body and set upon a pole, and was 
thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her 
captive subjects. They immediately recognized 
the features of their unfortunate queen, and 
were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that 
we are told they broke forth into the *'most 
horrid and diabolical lamentations.'' 

However Philip had borne up against the 
complicated miseries and misfortunes that sur- 
rounded him, the treachery of his followers 
seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to 
despondency. It is said that ** he never re- 
joiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his 
designs." The spring of hope was broken ; 
the ardor of enterprise was extinguished ; he 
looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; 
there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that 



174 Q^be Sketcbs=:fi3ook 

could bring deliverance. With a scanty band 
of followers, who still remained true to his 
desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wan- 
dered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the 
ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked 
about, like a spectre, among the scenes of 
former power and prosperity, now bereft of 
home, of family, and friend. There needs no 
better picture of his destitute and piteous 
situation than that furnished by the homely 
pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting 
the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless 
warrior whom he reviles. ** Philip," he says, 
'' like a savage wild beast, having been hunted 
by the English forces through the woods, above 
a hundred miles backward and forward, at last 
was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, 
where he retired, with a few of his best friends, 
into a swamp, which proved but a prison to 
keep him fast till the messengers of death 
came by divine permission to execute ven- 
geance upon him. ' ' 

Kven in this last refuge of desperation and 
despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his 
memory. We picture him to ourselves seated 
among his careworn followers, brooding in 
silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring 
a savage sublimity from the wildness and 
dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but 



Ipbillp of ipo?ianoket 175 

not dismayed — cruslied to the earth, but not hu- 
miliated — he seemed to grow more haughty 
beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce 
satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitter- 
ness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by 
misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The 
very idea of submission awakened the fury 
of Philip, and he smote to death one of his 
followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. 
The brother of the victim made his escape, and 
in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. 
A body of white men and Indians were im- 
mediately despatched to the swamp where 
Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and de- 
spair. Before he was aware of their approach, 
they had begun to surround him. In a little 
while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid 
dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he 
rushed forth from his covert, and made a head- 
long attempt to escape, but was shot through 
the heart by a renegado Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but un- 
fortunate King Philip ; persecuted while living, 
slandered and dishonored when dead. If, how- 
ever, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive 
in them traces of amiable and lofty character 
sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and 



176 Zbc SRetcbs':fi5ook 

respect for his memory. We find that, amidst 
all the harassing cares and ferocious passions 
of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer 
feelings of connubial love and paternal tender- 
ness, and to the generous sentiment of friend- 
ship. The captivity of his '^beloved wife and 
only son " are mentioned with exultation as 
causing him poignant misery ; the death of any 
near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new 
blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery 
and desertion of many of his followers, in whose 
affections he had confided, is said to have deso- 
lated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all 
further comfort. He was a patriot attached to 
his native soil, — a prince true to his subjects, 
and indignant of their wrongs, — a soldier, dar- 
ing in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fa- 
tigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he 
had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an un- 
tamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to 
enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in 
the dismal and famished recesses of swamps 
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty 
spirit to submission, and live dependent and 
despised in the ease and luxury of the settle- 
ments. With heroic qualities and bold achieve- 
ments that would have graced a civilized 
warrior, and have rendered him the theme of 



Ipbiltp of ipo?ianofeet 



177 



the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went 
down, like a lonely bark foundering amid dark- 
ness and tempest — without a pitying eye to 
weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his 
struggle. 




JOHN BULL. 

An old song", made by an aged old pate, 

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 

And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by 

his looks. 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old 

cooks. 

I^ike an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

THBRB is no species of humor in whicli the 
English more excel than that which con- 
sists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appel- 
lations, or nicknames. In this way they have 
whimsically designated, not merely individuals, 
but nations ; and, in their fondness for pushing 
a joke, they have not spared even themselves. 
One would think that, in personifying itself, a 
nation would be apt to picture something 
grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is char- 
acteristic of the popular humor of the Knglish, 
and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and 
familiar, that they have embodied their national 
oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old 



5obn :fi3ull 179 



fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist- 
coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. 
Thus they have taken a singular delight in ex- 
hibiting their most private foibles in a laugh- 
able point of view ; and have been so successful 
in their delineations, that there is scarcely a 
being in actual existence more absolutely pres- 
ent to the public mind than that eccentric 
personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the 
character thus drawn of them has contributed 
to fix it upon the nation, and thus to give 
reality to what at first may have been painted 
in a great measure from the imagination. Men 
are apt to acquire peculiarities that are con- 
tinually ascribed to them. The common orders 
of English seem wonderfully captivated with 
the beau ideal which they have formed of John 
Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad cari- 
cature that is perpetually before their eyes. 
Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or gross- 
ness ; and this I have especially noticed among 
those truly home-bred and genuine sons of the 
soil who have never migrated beyond the 
sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be 
a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter im- 
pertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real 
John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he 



i8o ^be Sl^etcbssJSooK 

now and tlien flies into an unreasonable burst 
of passion about trifles, lie observes, that John 
Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion 
is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. 
If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an in- 
sensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks 
heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John 
Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knick- 
knacks. His very proneness to be gulled by 
strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdi- 
ties, is excused under the plea of munificence — 
for John is always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will 
contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and 
frankly convict himself of being the honestest 
fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may 
have suited in the first instance, it has gradually 
adapted itself to the nation, or rather they have 
adapted themselves to each other ; and a stran- 
ger who wishes to study English peculiarities, 
may gather much valuable information from 
the innimierable portraits of John Bull, as ex- 
hibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. 
Still, however, he is one of those fertile humor- 
ists, that are continually throwing out new 
portraits, and presenting different aspects from 
different points of view ; and, often as he has 
been described, I cannot resist the temptation 



Sohn :fi3ull iSi 



to give a slight sketch of him, such as has met 
my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, down- 
right matter-of-fact fellow, with much less of 
poetry about him than rich prose. There is 
little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal 
of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor 
more than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; 
melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be 
moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a 
broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has 
no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon- 
companion, if you allow him to have his 
humor, and to talk about himself ; and he will 
stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and 
purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a 
propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a 
busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely 
for himself and family, but for all the country 
round, and is most generously disposed to be 
everybody's champion. He is continually vol- 
unteering his service to settle his neighbor's 
affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they 
engage in any matter of consequence without 
asking his advice ; though he seldom engages 
in any friendly ofi&ce of the kind without finish- 
ing by getting into a squabble with all parties, 
and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. 



i82 ^be Q\{ctch^:sSoo\{ 

He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the 
noble science of defence, and having accom- 
plished himself in the use of his limbs and his 
weapons, and become a perfect master at 
boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a trouble- 
some life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a 
quarrel between the most distant of his neigh- 
bors, but he begins incontinently to fumble 
with the head of his cudgel, and consider 
whether his interest or honor does not require 
that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he 
has extended his relations of pride and policy 
so completely over the whole country, that no 
event can take place, without infringing some 
of his finely spun rights and dignities. Couched 
in his little domain, with these filaments stretch- 
ing forth in every direction, he is like some 
choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has 
woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a 
fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without 
startling his repose, and causing him to sally 
forth wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered 
old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of 
being in the midst of contention. It is one of 
his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes 
the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into 
a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grum- 
blinp* even when victorious ; and though no 



5obn :jbuII 183 



one fights witli more obstinacy to carry a con- 
tested point, yet, when the battle is over, and 
he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much 
taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that 
he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that 
they have been quarrelling about. It is not, 
therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be 
on his guard against, as making friends. It is 
difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but 
put him in a good humor, and you may bargain 
him out of all the money in his pocket. He is 
like a stout ship, w^hich will weather the rough- 
est storm uninjured, but roll its masts over- 
board in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnificent 
abroad ; of pulling out a long purse ; flinging 
his money bravely about at boxing matches, 
horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high 
head among * ' gentlemen of the fancy ' ' ; but 
immediately after one of these fits of extrava- 
gance he will be taken with violent qualms of 
economy ; stop short at the most trivial expen- 
diture ; talk desperately of being ruined and 
brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, 
will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill with- 
out violent altercation. He is in fact the most 
punctual and discontented paymaster in the 
world ; drawing his coin out of his breeches- 
pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the 



i84 Zbc SketcbsJBooK 

uttermost farthing, but accompanying every 
guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is 
a bountiful provider, and a hospitable house- 
keeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, 
its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge 
himself a beefsteak and a pint of port one day, 
that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogs- 
head of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the 
next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously 
expensive ; not so much from any great out- 
ward parade, as from the great consumption of 
solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of 
followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular 
disposition to pay hugely for small services. He 
is a most kind and indulgent master, and, pro- 
vided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter 
his vanity a little now and then, and do not 
peculate grossly on him before his face, they 
may manage him to perfection. E^very thing 
that lives on him seems to thrive and grow 
fat. His house-servants are well paid, and 
pampered, and have little to do. His horses 
are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his 
state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly 
about the door, and will hardly bark at a house- 
breaker. 



5obn JSuU 185 



His family mansion is an old castellated 
manor-house, gray with age, and of the most 
venerable, though weather-beaten appearance. 
It has been built on no regular plan, but is a 
vast accumulation of parts, erected in various 
tastes and ages. The centre bears evident 
traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as 
ponderous stone and old Knglish oak can make 
it. Ivike all the relics of that style, it is full of 
obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky 
chambers ; and though these have been par- 
tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are 
many places where you must still grope in the 
dark. Additions have been made to the original 
edifice from time to time, and great alterations 
have taken place ; towers and battlements have 
been erected during wars and tumults ; wings 
built in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, 
and offices run up according to the w^him or 
convenience of different generations, until it 
has become one of the most spacious, rambling 
tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken 
up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that 
must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, 
indeed, in spite of having been altered and 
simplified at various periods, has still a look of 
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are 
storied with the monuments of John's ances- 
tors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cush- 



i86 XLbc Sketcb^JBook 

ions and well-lined chairs, where such of his 
family as are inclined to church services may 
doze comfortably in the discharge of their 
duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much 
money ; but he is stanch in his religion, and 
piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that 
many dissenting chapels have been erected in 
his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with 
whom he has had quarrels, are strong Papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, 
at a large expense, a pious and portly family 
chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous 
personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who 
always backs the old gentleman in his opin- 
ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of 
great use in exhorting the tenants to read their 
Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay 
their rents punctually and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very an- 
tiquated taste, somewhat heavy, and often 
inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnifi- 
cence of former times ; fitted up with rich 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and 
loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast 
fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, 
and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of 
the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which 



5obn JSuU 1S7 



the modem festivity at the manor-house is but 
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites 
of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn ; 
and towers and turrets that are tottering to de- 
cay, so that in high winds there is danger of 
their tumbling about the ears of the household. 
John has frequently been advised to have the 
old edifice thoroughly overhauled, and to have 
some of the useless parts pulled down, and the 
others strengthened with their materials ; but 
the old gentleman always grows testy on this 
subject. He swears the house is an excellent 
house — that it is tight and weather-proof, and 
not to be shaken by tempests — that it has stood 
for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not 
likely to tumble down now — that, as to its being 
inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the 
inconveniences, and would not be comfortable 
without them — that, as to its unwieldy size and 
irregular construction, these result from its be- 
ing the growth of centuries, and being improved 
by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 
family, like his, requires a large house to dwell 
in ; new, upstart families may live in modern 
cottages and snug boxes, but an old English 
family should inhabit an old Knglish manor- 
house. If you point out any part of the build- 
ing as superfluous, he insists that it is material 
to the strength or decoration of the rest, and 



i88 XLbc SftetcbssJBoofe 

the harmony of the whole ; and swears that the 
parts are so built into each other that, if you 
pull down one, you run the risk of having the 
whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a 
great disposition to protect and patronize. He 
thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an an- 
cient and honorable family to be bounteous in 
its appointments, and to be eaten up by depend- 
ents ; and so, partly from pride and partly from 
kindheartedness, he makes it a rule always to 
give shelter and maintenance to his superannu- 
ated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other 
venerable family establishments, his manor is 
encumbered by old retainers whom he cannot 
turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay 
down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a 
whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook 
or comer but is of use in housing some useless 
personage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters, 
gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the but- 
tery and the larder are seen lolling about its 
walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its 
trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches 
at its doors. Every office and out-house is gar- 
risoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and 



5obn :Sull 189 



when they die off, are sure to leave John a 
legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most 
mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, 
from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of 
some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived 
at John's expense all his life, and makes the 
most grievous outcry at their pulling down the 
roof from over the head of a worn-out servant 
of the family. This is an appeal that John's 
honest heart never can withstand ; so that a 
man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pud- 
ding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a 
pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into 
paddocks, where his broken-down chargers are 
turned loose to graze undisturbed for the re- 
mainder of their existence, — a worthy example 
of grateful recollection, which if some of his 
neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their 
discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleas- 
ures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, 
to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past 
services, and boast, with some little vainglory, 
of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits 
through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his venera- 
tion for family usages, and family incum- 
brances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is 



igo XLbc Sfietcb=J8ooh 



infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not 
suffer them to be driven off, because they have 
infested the place time out of mind, and been 
regular poachers upon every generation of the 
family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch 
to be lopped from the great trees that surround 
the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that 
have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken 
possession of the dove-cot ; but they are heredi- 
tary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows 
have nearly choked up every chimney with 
their nests ; martins build in every frieze and 
cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and 
perch on every weathercock; and old gray- 
headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the 
house, running in and out of their holes un- 
dauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John 
has such a reverence for e^^ery thing that has 
been long in the family, that he will not hear 
even of abuses being reformed, because they 
are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred 
wofully to drain the old gentleman^s purse; 
and as he prides himself on punctuality in 
money matters, and wishes to maintain his 
credit in the neighborhood, they have caused 
him great perplexity in meeting his engage- 
ments. This, too, has been increased by the 
alterations and heart-burnings which are con- 



5obn JBuIl 191 



tinually taking place in his family. His chil- 
dren have been brought up to different callings, 
and are of different ways of thinking ; and as 
they have always been allowed to speak their 
minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the 
privilege most clamorously in the present pos- 
ture of his affairs. Some stand up for the 
honor of the race, and are clear that the old 
establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
whatever may be the cost ; others, who are 
more prudent and considerate, entreat the old 
gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more 
moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, 
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but 
their wholesome advice has been completely 
defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of 
his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of 
rather low habits, who neglects his business to 
frequent ale-houses, is the orator of village 
clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest 
of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear 
any of his brothers mention reform or retrench- 
ment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of 
their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. 
When his tongue is once going, nothing can 
stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors the 
old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridi- 
cules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he 



192 tlbe Sketcb*=J8ooh 

shall turn the old servants out-of-doors ; give 
the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send 
the fat chaplain packing, and take a field- 
preacher in his place, — nay, that the v^hole 
family mansion shall be levelled with the 
ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar 
built in its place. He rails at every social 
entertainment and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an 
equipage drives up to the door. Though con- 
stantly complaining of the emptiness of his 
purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his 
pocket-money in these tavern convocations, 
and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
which he preaches about his father's extrava- 
gance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such 
thwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fiery 
temperament. He has become so irritable, 
from repeated crossings, that the mere mention 
of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a 
brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As 
the latter is too sturdy and refractory for pater- 
nal discipline, having grown out of all fear of 
the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy 
warfare, which at times runs so high, that John 
is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
officer who has served abroad, but is at present 
living at home, on half-pay. This last is sure 



Jobn JSull 193 



to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong ; 
likes nothing so much as a racketing, roistering 
life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out 
sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, 
if he dares to array himself against paternal 
authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got 
abroad, and are rare food for scandal in John's 
neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and 
shake their heads, whenever his affairs are men- 
tioned. They all *'hope that matters are not so 
bad with him as represented ; but when a man's 
own children begin to rail at his extravagance, 
things must be badly managed. They under- 
stand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and 
is continually dabbling with money-lenders. 
He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, 
but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they 
never knew any good come of this fondness for 
hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting. 
In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and 
has been in the family a long time ; but, for all 
that, they have known many finer estates come 
to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these 
pecuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds 
have had on the poor man himself. Instead of 
that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, 
^hich he used to present, he has of late become 



194 ^be SKetcb:sjsooh 

as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. 
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied 
out so bravely in those prosperous days when he 
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about 
him like a main-sail in a calm. His leather 
breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and ap- 
parently have much ado to hold up the boots 
that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with 
his three-cornered hat on one side ; flourishing 
his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment 
with a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking 
every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out 
a stave of a catch or a drinking song, he now 
goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, 
with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked 
under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bot- 
tom of his breeches-pockets, which are evidently 
empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at 
present ; yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is 
as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the 
least expression of sympathy or concern, he 
takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the 
richest and stoutest fellow in the country ; 
talks of laying out large sums to adorn his 
house or buy another estate ; and with a valiant 
swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs ex- 
ceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 



5obn MSull 195 



Though there may be something rather whim- 
sical in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon 
John's situation without strong feelings cf in- 
terest With all his odd humors and obstinate 
prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. 
He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as 
he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as 
good as his neighbors represent him. His vir- 
tues are all his own ; all plain, home-bred, and 
unaffected. His very faults smack of the raci- 
ness of his good qualities. His extravagance 
savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness, 
of his courage ; his credulity, of his open faith ; 
his vanity, of his pride ; and his bluntncss, of his 
sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a 
rich and liberal character. He is like Lis own 
oak, rough without and sound and solid within ; 
whose bark abounds with encreccences in pro- 
portion to the growth and grandeur cf the tim- 
ber ; and whose branches make a fearful groan- 
ing and murmuring in the least storm, from 
their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is 
something, too, in the appearance of his old 
family mansion that is extremely poetical and 
picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered 
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble 
to see it meddled with during the present con- 
flict of tastes and opinions. Some of his ad- 
visers are no doubt good architects, that might 



196 XTbe St^etcb^JSooK 

be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere level- 
lers, who, when they had once got to work with 
-their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would 
never stop until they had brought it to the 
ground, and perhaps buried themselves among 
the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's pres- 
ent troubles may teach him more prudence in 
future ; that he may cease to distress his mind 
about other people's affairs ; that he may give 
up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of 
his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of 
the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may 
remain quietly at home ; gradually get his 
house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate ac- 
cording to his fancy ; husband his income — if 
he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children 
into order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes 
of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his 
paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a 
merry old age. 





THB PRIDB OF THB VIIvLAGB. 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
lyove kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

IN the course of an excursion through one of 
the remote counties of England, I had 
struck into one of those cross-roads that lead 
through the more secluded parts of the country, 
and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situ- 
ation of which was beautifully rural and re- 
tired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
about its inhabitants, not to be found in the 
villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I 
determined to pass the night there, and, having 
taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the 
neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travel- 
lers, soon led me to the church, which stood at 
a little distance from the village. Indeed, it 
was an object of some curiosity, its old tower 
being completely overrun with ivy, so that only 



198 Zbc Sftetcbs^JSook 

here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of 
gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, 
peered through the verdant covering. It was a 
lovely evening. The early part of the day had 
been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it 
had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds still 
hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of 
golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and 
lit up all nature with a melancholy smile. 
It seemed like the parting hour of a good 
Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of 
the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
decline, an assurance that he will rise again in 
glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tomb- 
stone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at 
this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and 
early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead,— and indulging in that 
kind of melancholy fancying which has in it 
something sweeter even than pleasure. Every 
now and then the stroke of a bell from the 
neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones 
were in unison with the scene, and, instead of 
jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it 
was some time before I recollected that it must 
be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the 
tomb. 



Zbc ipriDe of tbe IDUlage 199 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across 
the village green ; it wound slowly along a 
lane ; was lost, and reappeared through the 
breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
where I was sitting. The pall was supported 
by young girls, dressed in white ; and another, 
about the age of seventeen, walked before, 
bearing a chaplet of white flowers : a token that 
the deceased was a young and unmarried fe- 
male. The corpse was followed by the parents. 
They were a venerable couple of the better 
order of peasantry. The father seemed to re- 
press his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted 
brow, and deeply furrowed face showed the 
struggle that was passing within. His wife 
hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the con- 
vulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The 
bier was placed in the centre aisle, and the 
chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of white 
gloves, was hung over the seat which the de- 
ceased had occupied. 

Kvery one knows the soul-subduing pathos of 
the funeral service ; for who is so fortunate 
as never to have followed some one he has 
loved to the tomb ? but when performed over 
the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid 
low in the bloom of existence, what can be more 
affecting ? At that simple but solemn consign- 



trbe SKetcbssJSooh 



ment of the body to the grave — " Earth to earth 
— ashes to ashes — dust to dust ! " — the tears of 
the youthful companions of the deceased flowed 
unrestrained. The father still seemed to strug- 
gle with his feelings, and to comfort himself 
with the assurance that the dead are blessed 
which die in the I^ord ; but the mother only 
thought of her child as a flower of the field cut 
down and withered in the midst of its sweet- 
ness ; she was like Rachel, '^ mourning over her 
children, and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole 
story of the deceased. It was a simple one, 
and such as has often been told. She had been 
the beauty and pride of the village. Her father 
had once been an opulent farmer, but was re- 
duced in circumstances. This was an only 
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the 
simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil 
of the village pastor, and favorite lamb of his 
little flock. The good man watched over her 
education with paternal care ; it was limited, 
and suitable to the sphere in which she was to 
move ; for he only sought to make her an orna- 
ment to her station in life, not to raise her 
above it. The tenderness and indulgence of 
her parents, and the exemption from all ordi- 
nary occupations, had fostered a natural grace 
and delicacy of character that accorded with 



ttbe ipriDe of tbe Witlage ^oi 

the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared 
like some tender plant of the garden, blooming 
accidentally amid the hardier natives of the 
fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and 
acknowledged by her companions, but without 
envy ; for it was surpassed by the unassuming 
gentleness of her manners. It might be truly 
said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered 
spots which still retain some vestiges of old 
Knglish customs. It had its rural festivals and 
holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
observance of the once popular rights of May. 
These, indeed, had been promoted by its present 
pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one 
of those simple Christians that think their mis- 
sion fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and 
good-will among mankind. Under his auspices 
the May-pole stood from year to year in the 
centre of the village green ; on May-day it was 
decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a 
queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in 
former times, to preside at the sports, and dis- 
tribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque 



6o^ tbc Shetcb*:Booh 

situation of the village, and the fancifulness of 
its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of 
casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, 
was a young officer, whose regiment had been 
recently quartered in the neighborhood. He 
was charmed with the native taste that pervad- 
ed this village pageant ; but, above all, with the 
dawning loveliness of the queen of the May. It 
was the village favorite who was crowned with 
flowers, and blushing and smiling with all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and 
delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled 
him readily to make her acquaintance ; he grad- 
ually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid 
his court to her in that unthinking way in 
which young officers are too apt to trifle with 
rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle 
or alarm. He never even talked of love : but 
there are modes of making it more eloquent 
than language, and which convey it subtilely 
and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the 
eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses 
which emanate from every word, and look, and 
action, — these form the true eloquence of love, 
and can always be felt and understood, but 
never described. Can we wonder that they 
should readily win a heart, young, guileless, 
and susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost 



ZTbe ipnt)e ot tbe IDilla^e 203 

unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was 
the growing passion that was absorbing every 
thought and feeling, or what were to be its 
consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the 
future. When present, his looks and words 
occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she 
thought but of what had passed at their recent 
interview. She would wander with him through 
the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; 
he talked in the language of polite and cul- 
tivated life, and breathed into her ear the 
witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, 
between the sexes, more pure than this inno- 
cent girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful 
admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, 
might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was 
not these that had captivated her heart. Her 
attachment had something in it of idolatry. 
She looked up to him as to a being of a superior 
order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm 
of a mind nattirally delicate and poetical, and 
now first awakened to a keen perception of the 
beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions 
of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it 
was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of 
manners, from those of the rustic society to 
which she had been accustomed, that elevated 



204 XLbc SIietcb*JSoofe 

him in her opinion. She would listen to him 
with charmed ear and downcast look of mute 
delight, and her cheek would mantle with en- 
thusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance 
of timid admiration, it was as quickly with- 
drawn, and she would sigh and blush at the 
idea of her comparative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his 
passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser 
nature. He had begun the connection in levi- 
ty, for he had often heard his brother officers 
boast of their village conquests, and thought 
some triumph of the kind necessary to his repu- 
tation as a man of spirit. But he was too full 
of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been 
rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wan- 
dering and a dissipated life ; it caught fire from 
the very flame it sought to kindle ; and before 
he was aware of the nature of his situation, he 
became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old ob- 
stacles which so incessantly occur in these 
heedless attachments. His rank in life — the 
prejudices of titled connections — his depend- 
ence upon a proud and unyielding father, — all 
forbade him to think of matrimony ; but when 
he looked down upon this innocent being, so 
tender and confiding, there was a purity in her 
manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a be- 



trbe ipriDe of tbe IDillage 205 

seeching modesty in her looks, that awed down 
every licentious feeling. In vain did he fortify 
himself by a thousand heartless examples of 
men of fashion, and to chill the glow of gener- 
ous sentiment with that cold derisive levity 
with which he had heard them talk of female 
virtue ; whenever he came into her presence, 
she was still surrounded by that mysterious but 
impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hal- 
lowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment 
to repair to the Continent completed the con- 
fusion of his mind. He remained for a short 
time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; 
he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until 
the day for marching was at hand, when he 
gave her the intelligence in the course of an 
evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred 
to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of 
felicity ; she looked upon it as a sudden and in- 
surmountable evil, and wept with the guileless 
simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bo- 
som, and kissed the tears from her soft cheeks ; 
nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are 
moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness 
which hallow the caresses of affection. He 
was naturally impetuous ; and the sight of 
beauty, apparently yielding in his arms, the 



2o6 XLbc Sketcbs=J8ooh 

confidence of his power over her, and the dread 
of losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm 
his better feelings, — ^he ventured to propose 
that she should leave her home, and be the 
companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and 
blushed and faltered at his own baseness ; but 
so innocent of mind was his intended victim, 
that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
meaning ; and why she should leave her native 
village, and the humble roof of her parents. 
When at last the nature of his proposal flashed 
upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. 
She did not weep — she did not break forth into 
reproach — she said not a word — but she shrunk 
back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look 
of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, 
clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for ref- 
uge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, 
and repentant. It is uncertain what might have 
been the result of the conflict of his feelings, 
had not his thoughts been diverted by the bus- 
tle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, 
and new companions soon dissipated his self- 
reproach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst 
the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the 
array of armies, and even the din of battles, his 
thoughts would sometimes steal back to the 



trbe lpri^e of tbe Wtllage 207 

scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — ^the 
white cottage — the footpath along the silver 
brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the lit- 
tle village maid loitering along it, leaning on 
his arm, and listening to him with eyes beam- 
ing with unconscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, 
in the destruction of all her ideal world, had in- 
deed been cruel. Paintings and hysterics had 
at first shaken her tender frame, and were suc- 
ceeded by a settled and pining melancholy. 
She had beheld from her window the march of 
the departing troops. She had seen her faith- 
less lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the 
sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of 
arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, 
as the morning sun glittered about his figure, 
and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed 
away like a bright vision from her sight, and 
left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars 
of her after-story. It was, like other tales of 
love, melancholy. She avoided society, and 
wandered out alone in the walks she had most 
frequented with her lover. She sought, like the 
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, 
and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled 
in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late 
of an evening sitting in the porch of the village 



2o8 XLbc Sketcb=sj|Sooh 

church ; and the milkmaids, returning from the 
fields, would now and then overhear her sing- 
ing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. 
She became fervent in her devotions at church ; 
and as the old people saw her approach, so 
wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that 
hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round 
the form, they would make way for her, as for 
something spiritual, and, looking after her, 
would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening 
to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place 
of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to 
existence was loosened, and there seemed to be 
no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her 
gentle bosom had entertained resentment against 
her lover, it was extinguished. She was in- 
capable of angry passions ; and in a moment of 
saddened tenderness she penned him a farewell 
letter. It was couched in the simplest lan- 
guage, but touching from its very simplicity. 
She told him that she was dying, and did not 
conceal from him that his conduct was the 
cause. She even depicted the sufferings which 
she had experienced, but concluded with saying 
that she could not die in peace until she had 
sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined ; she could 
no longer leave the cottage. She could only 



tTbe ipriDc ot tbe IDUlage 209 

totter to the window, where, propped up in her 
chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered 
no complaint, nor imparted to any one the mal- 
ady that was preying on her heart. She never 
even mentioned her lover's name ; but would 
lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep 
in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute 
anxiety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, 
still flattering themselves that it might again 
revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly 
bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one 
Sunday afternoon ; her hands were clasped in 
theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft 
air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own 
hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in 
the Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly 
things, and of the joys of heaven ; it seemed to 
have diffused comfort and serenity through her 
bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village 
church ; the bell had tolled for evening service ; 
the last villager was lagging into the porch ; 
and every thing had sunk into that hallowed 
stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her 
parents were gazing on her with yearning 



2IO ^be Sl^etcbs=J8ooft 

hearts. Sickness and sorrow, whicli pass so 
roughly over some faces, had given to hers the 
expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in 
her soft blue eye. — ^Was she thinking of her 
faithless lover ? — or were her thoughts wander- 
ing to that distant churchyard into whose bosom 
she might soon be gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a 
horseman galloped to the cottage — he dis- 
mounted before the window — the poor girl gave 
a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her 
chair ; it was her repentant lover ! He rushed 
into the house, and flew to clasp her to his 
bosom ; but her wasted form — her deathlike 
countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its deso- 
lation — smote him to the soul, and he threw 
himself in agony at her feet. She was too 
faint to rise — she attempted to extend her 
trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, 
but no word was articulated — she looked down 
upon him with a smile of unutterable tender- 
ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of 
this village story. They are but scanty, and I 
am conscious have little novelty to recommend 
them. In the present rage also for strange in- 
cident and high-seasoned narrative, they may 
appear trite and insignificant, but they inter- 
ested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in 



Zbc iprtDe ot tbe IDillage 



connection with the affecting ceremony which 
I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression 
on my mind than many circumstances of a 
more striking nature. I have passed through 
the place since, and visited the church again, 
from a better motive than mere curiosity. It 
was a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped 
of their foliage ; the churchyard looked naked 
and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, 
had been planted about the grave of the village 
favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep 
the turf uninjured. 

The church-door was open, and I stepped in. 
There hung the chaplet of flowers and the 
gloves, as on the day of the funeral ; the flowers 
were withered, it is true, but care seemed to 
have been taken that no dust should soil their 
whiteness. I have seen many monuments, 
where art has exhausted its powers to awaken 
the S5nnpathy of the spectator, but I have met 
with none that spoke more touchingly to my 
heart than this simple but delicate memento of 
departed innocence. 




THE ANGLER. 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move. 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is in- 
duced to run away from his family, and be- 
take himself to a seafaring life, from reading 
the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect 
that, in like manner, many of those worthy 
gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of 
pastoral streams, with angle-rods in hand, may 
trace the origin of their passion to the seductive 
pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect 
studying his *' Complete Angler'' several years 
since, in company with a knot of friends in 
America, and moreover that we were all com- 
pletely bitten with the angling mania. It was 
early in the year ; but as soon as the weather 



ttbe Bn^ler 213 



was auspicious, and the spring began to melt 
into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand 
and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was 
ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the 
fulness of his equipments ; being attired cap-cc- 
pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted 
fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pock- 
ets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; 
a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, 
a landing-net, and a score of other inconveni- 
ences, only to be found in the true angler^s 
armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as 
great a matter of stare and wonderment among 
the country folk, who had never seen a regular 
angler, as was the steel-clad hero of I^a Mancha 
among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, 
among the highlands of the Hudson ; a most 
unfortunate place for the execution of those 
piscatory tactics which had been invented along 
the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It 
was one of those wild streams that lavish, 
among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beau- 
ties, enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter 
of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap 
down rocky shelves, making small cascades, 
over which the trees threw their broad balancing 
sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in 



214 tibe Sketcb=:ffiooft 

fringes from the impending banks, dripping 
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would 
brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted 
shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, 
after this termagant career, would steal forth 
into open day with the most placid demure face 
imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent 
shrew of a housewife, after filling her home 
with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out 
of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smil- 
ing upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook 
glide at such times, through some bosom of 
green meadow-land among the mountains ; 
where the quiet was only interrupted by the 
occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy 
cattle among the clover, or the sound of a wood- 
cutter's axe from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all 
kinds of sport that required either patience or 
adroitness, and had not angled above half an 
hour before I had completely ''satisfied the 
sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth 
of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is 
something like poetry — a man must be born to 
it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; 
tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; 
broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt 
in despair, and passed the day under the trees, 



Zhc Sngler 215 



reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural 
feeling that had bewitched me, and not the 
passion for angling. My companions, however, 
were more persevering in their delusion. I 
have them at this moment before my eyes, 
stealing along the border of the brook, where it 
lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by 
shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with 
hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely 
invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them 
suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs 
the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the 
hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 
from off the stone or log on which he is sun- 
ning himself; and the panic-struck frog plump- 
ing in headlong as they approach, and spreading 
an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching 
and creeping about for the greater part of a day, 
with scarcely any success, in spite of all our 
admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin 
came down from the hills with a rod made from 
a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, 
as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, a crooked 
pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, — 
and in half an hour caught more fish than we 
had nibbles throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, 



2i6 zbc Shctcb^sJSooft 

wholesome, hungry " repast, which we made 
under a beech-tree, just by a spring of pure 
sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; 
and how, when it was over, one of the party 
read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk- 
maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles 
in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. 
All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet 
I cannot refrain from uttering these recollec- 
tions, which are passing like a strain of music 
over my mind, and have been called up by an 
agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 
In a morning's stroll along the banks of the 
Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows 
down from the Welsh hills and throws itself 
into the Dee, my attention was attracted to 
a group seated on the margin. On approach- 
ing, I found it to consist of a veteran angler 
and two rustic disciples. The former was an 
old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very 
much but very carefully patched, betokening 
poverty, honestly come by, and decently main- 
tained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows 
had been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron- 
gray locks hung about his ears, and he had 
altogether the good-humored air of a consti- 
tutional philosopher who was disposed to take 
the world as it went. One of his companions 



tCbe angtet ^ii 



was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of 
an arrant poacher, and I '11 warrant could find 
his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the 
neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
was a tall, awkward country lad, with a loung- 
ing gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic 
beau. The old man was busy in examining the 
maw of a trout which he had just killed, to dis- 
cover by its contents what insects were season- 
able for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject 
to his companions, who appeared to listen with 
infinite deference. I have a kind feeling 
towards all "brothers of the angle," ever since 
I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, 
of a *'mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit" ; and 
my esteem for them has been increased since I 
met with an old ' ' Tretyse of fishing with the 
Angle," in which are set forth many of the 
maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. ** Take 
good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, 
*Hhat in going about your disportes ye open no 
man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also 
ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for 
no covetousness to the encreasing and sparing 
of your money only, but principally for your 
solace, and to cause the helth of your body and 
specyally of your soule. ' ' * 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling 
is a more industrious and devout employment than it is 



2i8 Zbc Sketcb*:Kooh 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran 
angler before me an exemplification of what I 
had read ; and there was a cheerful contented- 
ness in his looks that quite drew me towards 
him. I could not but remark the gallant man- 
ner in which he stumped from one part of the 
brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to 
keep the line from dragging on the ground or 
catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness 
with which he would throw his fly to any par- 
ticular place ; sometimes skimming it lightly 
along a little rapid, sometimes casting it into 
one of those dark holes made by a twisted root 
or overhanging bank, in which the large trout 
are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was 
giving instructions to his two disciples ; show- 
ing them the manner in which they should 
handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them 
along the surface of the stream. The scene 
brought to my mind the instructions of the sage 
Piscator to his scholar. The country around 
was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond 
of describing. It was a part of the great plain 
of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gess- 

generally considered : ** For when ye purpose to go on 
your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye 
many persons with you, which might let you of your 
game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge 
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, 
ye shall eschew and also avoide many vices, as ydelnes, 
which is principall cause to induce man to many other 
vices, as it is right well known." 



XLbc angler 219 



ford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills 
begin to swell up from among fresh-swelling 
meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in 
his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now and 
then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the 
whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old 
angler, and was so much entertained that, 
under pretext of receiving instructions in his 
art, I kept company with him almost the whole 
day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, 
and listening to his talk. He was very commu- 
nicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheer- 
ful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered 
by having an opportunity of displaying his 
piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and 
then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, 
and had passed some years of his youth in 
America, particularly in Savannah, where he 
had entered into trade, and had been ruined by 
the indiscretion of a partner. He had after- 
wards experienced many ups and downs in life, 
until he got into the navy, where his leg was 
carried away by a cannon-ball, at the battle of 
Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real 
good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got 
him a pension, which, together with some small 
paternal property, brought him in a revenue of 



220 XLbc Sketcbss:teook 

nearly forty pounds. On this lie retired to his 
native village, where he lived quietly and inde- 
pendently ; and devoted the remainder of his 
life to the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton atten- 
tively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his 
simple frankness and prevalent good humor. 
Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, 
was good and beautiful. Though he had been 
as roughly used in different countries as a poor 
sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with can- 
dor and kindness, appearing to look only on the 
good side of things ; and, above all, he was 
almost the only man I had ever met with who 
had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, 
and had honesty and magnanimity enough to 
take the fault to his own door, and not to curse 
the country. The lad that was receiving his 
instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir-ap- 
parent of a fat old widow who kept the village 
inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, 
and much courted by the idle, gentleman-like 
personages of the place. In taking him under 
his care, therefore, the old man had probably an 
eye to a privileged comer in the tap-room, and 
an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we 



trbe kinglet 221 



could forget, which anglers are apt to do, the 
cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms and 
insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of 
spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the 
^English are methodical even in their recrea- 
tions, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
it has been reduced among them to perfect rule 
and system. Indeed, it is an amusement pecul- 
iarly adapted to the mild and highly cultivated 
scenery of Bngland, where every roughness has 
been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams 
which wander, like veins of silver, through the 
bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one 
through a diversity of small home scenery; 
sometimes winding through ornamented 
grounds ; sometimes brimming along through 
rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 
with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes ventur- 
ing in sight of villages and hamlets, and then 
running capriciously away into shady retire- 
ments. The sweetness and serenity of nature, 
and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradu- 
ally bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are 
now and then agreeably interrupted by the song 
of birds, the distant whistle of the peasant, or 
perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of 
the still water, and skimming transiently about 
its glassy surface. "When I would beget con- 



tibe Shetcb:s:teook 



tent," says Izaak Walton, '*and increase confi- 
dence in the power and wisdom and providence 
of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by 
some gliding stream, and there contemplate the 
lilies that take no care, and those very many 
other little living creatures that are not only 
created but fed (man knows not how) by the 
goodness of the God of nature, and therefore 
trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation 
from one of those ancient champions of an- 
gling, which breathes the same innocent and 
happy spirit : 

I^et me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
And on the world and my Creator think ; 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 

I^et them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting with the old angler I inquired 
after his place of abode ; and happening to be 

* J. Davors. 



tEbe %nQlct 223 



in the neighborhood of the village a few even- 
ings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him 
out. I found him living in a small cottage, 
containing only one room, but a perfect curi- 
osity in its method and arrangement. It was 
on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a 
little back from the road, with a small garden 
in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and 
adorned with a few flowers. The whole front 
of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. 
On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The 
interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, 
his ideas of comfort and convenience having 
been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of- 
war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, 
which, in the daytime, was lashed up so as to 
take but little room. From the centre of the 
chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own 
workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, 
and a large sea-chest, formed the principal 
movables. About the wall were stuck up naval 
ballads, such as ** Admiral Hosier's Ghost," 
"All in the Downs," and *'Tom Bowline," in- 
termingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 
which the battle of Camperdown held a distin- 
guished place. The mantel-piece was decorated 
with sea-shells ; over which hung a quadrant, 
flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking 
naval commanders. His implements for an- 



2^4 trbe Sketcb:=:fi8ook 

gling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks 
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his 
library, containing a work on angling, much 
worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd vol- 
ume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and 
a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with 
one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and 
tamed, and educated himself, in the course of 
one of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety 
of sea-phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of 
a veteran boatswain. The establishment re- 
minded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing 
*' stowed away " with the regularity of a ship of 
war ; and he informed me that he ^* scoured the 
deck every morning, and swept it between 
meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the 
door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sun- 
shine. His cat was purring soberly on the 
threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung 
in the centre of his cage. He had been angling 
all day, and gave me a history of his sport with 
as much minuteness as a general would talk 
over a campaign ; being particularly animated 
in relating the manner in which he had taken a 
large trout, which had completely tasked all 



Zbc Bugler 225 



his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as 
a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and 
contented old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, 
like this, after being tempest-tost through life, 
safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the 
evening of his days ! His happiness, however, 
sprung from within himself, and was indepen- 
dent of external circumstances ; for he had that 
inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most 
precious gift of Heaven — spreading itself like 
oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keep- 
ing the mind smooth and equable in the rough- 
est weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned 
that he was a universal favorite in the village, 
and the oracle of the tap-room, where .he de- 
lighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sind- 
bad, astonished them with his stories of strange 
lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was 
much noticed, too, by gentlemen sportsmen of 
the neighborhood ; had taught several of them 
the art of angling ; and was a privileged visitor 
to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life 
was quiet and inoffensive, being principally 
passed about the neighboring streams, when 
the weather and season were favorable ; and at 
other times he employed himself at home, pre- 
paring his fishing-tackle for the next campaign. 



226 Zbc Sketcb=:fl3ook 

or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies for his 
patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sun- 
days, though he generally fell avsleep during the 
sermon. He had made it his particular request 
that when he died he should be buried in a 
green spot, which he could see from his seat in 
church, and which he had marked out ever 
since he was a boy, and had thought of when 
far from home on the raging sea, in danger of 
being food for the fishes ; — it was the spot where 
his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is 
growing weary ; but I could not refrain from 
drawing the picture of this worthy *' brother of 
the angle," who has made me more than ever 
in love with the theory, though I fear I shall 
never be adroit in the practice of his art ; and 
I will conclude this rambling sketch in the 
words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the 
blessing of St. Peter's master upon my reader, 
'^and upon all that are true lovers of virtue, 
and dare trust in his providence, and be quiet, 
and go a-angling." 




THE I.BGBND OF SIvKBPY HOLLOW. 

I^OUND AMONG THE PAPE:RS OF THE I/ATE 
DIBDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves 
which indent the eastern shore of the Hud- 
son, at that broad expansion of the river de- 
nominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently 
shortened sail, and implored the protection of 
St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
small market-town or rural port, which by some 
is called Greensburgh, but which is more gen- 
erally and properly known by the name of 
Tarry Town. This name was given, we are 
told, in former days, by the good housewives of 
the adjacent country, from the inveterate pro- 
pensity of their husbands to linp-er about the 



228 Zbc S\{ctcb^3oo\{ 

village tavern on market-days. Be that as it 
may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely ad- 
vert to it for the sake of being precise and au- 
thentic. Not far from this village, perhaps 
about two miles, there is a little valley, or 
rather lap of land, among high hills, which is 
one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just mur- 
mur enough to lull one to repose ; and the oc- 
casional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a 
woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever 
breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first ex- 
ploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall 
walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. 
I had wandered into it at noontime, when all 
nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by 
the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 
bath stillness around, and was prolonged and 
reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I 
should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal 
from the world and its distractions, and dream 
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little 
valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the 
peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are de- 
scendants from the original Dutch settlers, this 
sequestered glen has long been known by the 



ttbe XegenD of Sleepi^ IboUow 229 

name of Si^KEpy HoiviyOW, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy 
influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that 
the place was bewitched by a high German doc- 
tor, during the early days of the settlement ; 
others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there be- 
fore the country was discovered by Master Hen- 
drick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still 
continues under the sway of some witching 
power, that holds a spell over the minds of the 
good people, causing them to walk in a con- 
tinual revery. They are given to all kinds of 
marvellous beliefs ; are subject to trances and 
visions ; and frequently see strange sights, and 
hear music and voices in the air. The whole 
neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot 
and meteors glare oftener across the valley than 
in any other part of the country, and the 
nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to 
make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts 
this enchanted region, and seems to be com- 
mander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is 
the apparition of a figure on horseback without 
a head, It is said by some to be the ghost of a, 



230 XLbc S?^etcb=J3ook 



Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried 
away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle 
during the revolutionary war, and who is ever 
and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying 
along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings 
of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church 
at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the 
most authentic historians of those parts, who 
have been careful in collecting and collating 
the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege 
that the body of the trooper, having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth 
to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his 
head ; and that the rushing speed with which 
he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a 
midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, 
and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary 
superstition, which has furnished materials for 
many a wild story in that region of shadows ; 
and the spectre is known, at all the country 
firesides, by the name of The Headless Horse- 
man of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity 
I have mentioned is not confined to the native 
inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously 



Zbc XegcnD of Sleepi^ Ibollow 231 

imbibed by every one who resides there for a 
time. However wide-awake they may have 
been before they entered that sleepy region, 
they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the 
witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative, to dream dreams, and see appari- 
tions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible 
laud ; for it is in such little retired Dutch val- 
leys, found here and there embosomed in the 
great State of New York, that population, man- 
ners, and customs remain fixed ; while the great 
torrent of migration and improvement, which is 
making such incessant changes in other parts 
of this restless country, sweeps by them un- 
observed. They are like those little nooks of 
still water which border a rapid stream ; where 
we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly 
at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic 
harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing 
current. Though many jxars have elapsed since 
I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet 
I question whether I should not still find the 
same trees and the same families vegetating 
in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a 
remote period of American history, that is to 
say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of 
the name of Ichabod Crane ; ^ho sojourned, or^ 



232 XLbc S\{ctcb^:fBoo\{ 

as he expressed it, *^ tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, 
for the purpose of instructing the children of 
the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a 
State which supplies the Union with pioneers 
for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends 
forth yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen 
and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of 
Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He 
was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that 
dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
might have served for shovels, and his whole 
frame most loosely hung together. His head 
was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large 
green, glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so 
that it looked like a weathercock perched upon 
his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind 
blew. To see him striding along the profile of 
a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging 
and fluttering about him, one might have mis- 
taken him for the genius of famine descending 
upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from 
a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one 
large room, rudely constructed of logs ; the 
windows partly glazed, and partly patched with 
leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingen- 
iously secured at vacant hours by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes 



Cbe %cgcnt> of Sleepy Ibollow 233 

set against the window-sliutters ; so that, 
though a thief might get in with perfect ease, 
he would find some embarrassment in getting 
out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery 
of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a 
rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the 
foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close 
by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one 
end of it. From hence the low murmur of his 
pupils* voices, conning over their lessons, might 
be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the 
hum of a beehive ; interrupted now and then 
by the authoritative voice of the master, in the 
tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, 
by the appalling sound of the birch, as he 
urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery 
path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a 
conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the 
golden maxim, *' Spare the rod and spoil the 
child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly 
were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that 
he was one of those cruel potentates of the 
school, who joy in the smart of their subjects ; 
on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity, taking the 
burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it 
on those of the strong. Your mere puny strip- 



^34 tLhc Shetcbs=Ji8ooft 

ling, that winced at the least flourish of the 
rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the 
claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a 
double portion on some little, tough, wrong- 
headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen be- 
neath the birch. All this he called ^^ doing his 
duty" by their parents ; and he never inflicted 
a chastisement without following it by the 
assurance, so consolatory to the smarting 
urchin, that *'he would remember it, and thank 
him for it, the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even 
the companion and plajntnate of the larger boys ; 
and on holiday afternoons would convoy some 
of the smaller ones home, who happened to 
have pretty sisters, or good housewives for 
mothers, noted for the comforts of the cup- 
board. Indeed it behooved him to keep on 
good terms with his pupils. The revenue 
arising from his school was small, and would 
have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, 
though lank, had the dilating powers of an 
anaconda : but to help out his maintenance, he 
was, according to country custom in those 
parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the 
farmers whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively a week at a time; 



tbc %CQcn^ of Sleepy IboUow 235 

thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, 
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton 
handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the 
purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to con- 
sider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, 
and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- 
ous ways of rendering himself both useful and 
agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally 
in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to 
make hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses 
to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut 
wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all 
the dominant dignity and absolute sway with 
which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
school, and became wonderfully gentle and in- 
gratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the 
mothers, by petting the children, particularly 
the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which 
whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, 
he would sit with a child on one knee, and 
rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours to- 
gether. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the 
singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked 
up many bright shillings by instructing the 
young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of 
no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his 
station in front of the church gallery, with a 



236 ^be Shetcb:s:teooh 

band of chosen singers ; where, in his own 
mind, he completely carried away the palm 
from the parson. Certain it is, his voice re- 
sounded far above all the rest of the congrega- 
tion ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be 
heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side 
of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
which are said to be legitimately descended 
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way 
which is commonly denominated *^by hook and 
by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on toler- 
ably enough, and was thought, by all who 
understood nothing of the labor of head work, 
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some 
importance in the female circle of a rural neigh- 
borhood; being considered a kind of idle, 
gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior 
taste and accomplishments to the rough country 
swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to 
the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt 
to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a 
farm-house, and the addition of a supernumer- 
ary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradven- 
ture, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of 
letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
smiles of all the country damsels. How he 



tLbc %cgcnb of Sleepy IboUow 237 

would figure among them in the churchyard, 
between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes 
for them from the wild vines that overrun the 
surrounding trees ; reciting for their amusement 
all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or saunter- 
ing, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks 
of the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bash- 
ful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a 
kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole 
budget of local gossip from house to house ; so 
that his appearance was always greeted with 
satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by 
the women as a man of great erudition, for he 
had read several books quite through, and was 
a perfect master of Cotton Mather's ^^ History 
of New England Witchcraft," in which, by the 
way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small 
shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite 
for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting 
it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had 
been increased by his residence in this spell- 
bound region. No tale was too gross or mon- 
strous for his capacious swallow. It was often 
his delight, after his school was dismissed in 
the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed 
of clover bordering the little brook that whim- 



238 Zbc S?ietcb=saSook 



pered by his school-house, and there con over 
old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering 
dusk of the evening made the printed page a 
mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended 
his way, by swamp and stream, and awful 
woodland, to the farm-house where he hap- 
pened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at 
that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagi- 
nation ; the moan of the whippoorwill ^ from 
the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, 
that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of 
the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the 
thicket of birds frightened from their roost. 
The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
in the darkest places, now and then startled 
him, as one of uncommon brightness would 
stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a 
huge blockhead of a beetle came winging 
his blundering flight against him, the poor 
varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the 
idea that he was struck with a witch's token. 
His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was 
to sing psalm-tunes ; and the good people of 
Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an 
evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing 

* The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at 
night. It receives its name from its note, which is 
thought to resemble those words. 



ttbe %CQcnb of Steepi^ Ibollow ^39 

his nasal melody, ^'in linked sweetness long 
drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, 
to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch 
wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a 
row of apples roasting and spluttering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales 
of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and 
haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and 
haunted houses, and particularly of the headless 
horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, 
as they sometimes called him. He would de- 
light them equally by his anecdotes of witch- 
craft, and of the direful omens and portentous 
sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed 
in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would 
frighten them wofully with speculations upon 
comets and shooting stars, and with the alarm- 
ing fact that the world did absolutely turn 
round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while 
snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a 
chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the 
crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no 
spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk 
homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows 



240 tTbe Sketcb^JSooh 

beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare 
of a snowy night ! With what wistful look did 
he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
across the waste fields from some distant win- 
dow ! How often was he appalled by some 
shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted 
spectre, beset his very path ! How often did 
he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his 
own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet ; 
and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he 
should behold some uncouth being tramping 
close behind him ! And how often was he 
thrown into complete dismay by some rushing 
blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that 
it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his 
nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
night, phantoms of the mind that walk in dark- 
ness ; and though he had seen many spectres in 
his time, and been more than once beset by 
Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambu- 
lations, yet daylight put an end to all these 
evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life 
of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if 
his path had not been crossed by a being that 
causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches 
put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, 



Zbc XegenD of Sleepy Ibollow 241 

one evening in each week, to receive his in- 
structions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tas- 
sel, the daughter and only child of a substantial 
Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and 
melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's 
peaches, and universally famed, not merely for 
her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was 
withal a little of a coquette, as might be per- 
ceived even in her dress, which was a mixture 
of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited 
to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments 
of pure yellow gold, which her great-great- 
grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; 
the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and 
withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display 
the prettiest foot and ankle in the country 
round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart 
towards the sex ; and it is not to be wondered 
at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor 
in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited 
her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van 
Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, con- 
tented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it 
is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts 
beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but 
within those every thing was snug, happy, and 
well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 



242 ^be Sketcb^sJSooh 

wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself 
upon the hearty abundance, rather than the 
style in which he lived. His stronghold was 
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of 
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which 
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A 
great elm-tree spread its broad branches over 
it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of 
the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, 
formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass to a neighboring brook, 
that bubbled along among alders and dwarf 
willows. Hard by the farm-house was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church, every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting 
forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail 
was busily resounding within it from morning 
till night ; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the 
weather, some with their heads under their 
wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their 
dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the 
repose and abundance of their pens, whence 
sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking 
pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron 
of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining 



Zhc XegenD ot Sleepy Ibollow 243 

pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regi- 
ments of turkeys were gobbling through the 
farm-yard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it, 
like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, 
discontented cry. Before the barn-door strutted 
the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a 
warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his 
burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and 
gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the 
earth with his feet, and then generously calling 
his ever-hungry family of wives and children 
to enjoy the rich morsel which he had dis- 
covered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked 
upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious win- 
ter fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pic- 
tured to himself every roasting-pig running 
about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple 
in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to 
bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a 
coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in 
their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily 
in dishes, like snug married couples, with a 
competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he 
saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he 
beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under 
its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory 
sausages ; and even bright chanticleer himself 



244 tibe Q\{ctcb^:Boo)\ 

lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which 
his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while 
living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, 
and as he rolled his great green eyes over the 
fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of 
rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the 
orchard burdened with ruddy fruit, which sur- 
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his 
heart yearned after the damsel who was to 
inherit these domains, and his imagination ex- 
panded with the idea how they might be readily 
turned into cash, and the money invested in 
immense tracts of wild land, and shingle pal- 
aces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy 
already realized his hopes, and presented to 
him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family 
of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her 
heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or 
the Ivord knows where. 

When he entered the house, the conquest of 
his heart was complete. It was one of those 
spacious farm - houses, with high - ridged, but 
lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed 
down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low pro- 



Zbc %cgcr\^ ot Sleepi^ Ibollow 245 

jecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, 
capable of being closed up in bad weather. 
Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in 
the neighboring river. Benches were built 
along the sides for summer use ; and a great 
spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the 
other, showed the various uses to which this 
important porch might be devoted. From this 
piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, 
which formed the centre of the mansion and 
the place of usual residence. Here rows of 
resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, 
dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge 
bag of wool ready to be spun ; in another a 
quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; 
ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples 
and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the 
walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; 
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the 
best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and 
dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors ; and 
irons, with their accompanying shovel and 
tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus 
tops ; mock-oranges, and conch-shells decorated 
the mantel-piece ; strings of various colored 
birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great 
ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the 
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left 



246 ^be Sftetcb=3Booft 

open, displayed immense treasures of old silver 
and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon 
these regions of delight, the peace of his mind 
was at an end, and his only study was how to 
gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had 
more real difficulties than generally fell to the 
lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had 
any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, 
and such like easily conquered adversaries, to 
contend with ; and had to make his way merely 
through gates of iron and brass, and walls of 
adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of 
his heart was confined ; all which he achieved 
as easily as a man would carve his way to the 
centre of a Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave 
him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, 
on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart 
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth 
of whims and caprices, which were forever 
presenting new difficulties and impediments ; 
and he had to encounter a host of fearful ad- 
versaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous 
rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her 
heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon 
each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a 



Zbc XegenD of Sleepi2 Ibollow 247 

burly, roaring, roistering blade, of the name of 
Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbrevia- 
tion, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country 
round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered, and 
double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and 
a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having 
a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his 
Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he 
had received the nickname of Brom Bonks, by 
which he was universally known. He was 
famed for great knowledge and skill in horse- 
manship, being as dexterous on horseback as a 
Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock- 
fights ; and, with the ascendancy which bodily 
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire 
in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and 
giving his decisions with an air and tone ad- 
mitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was al- 
ways ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but had 
more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; 
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there 
was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at 
bottom. He had three or four boon compan- 
ions, who regarded him as their model, and at 
the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for 
miles round. In cold weather he was distin- 
guished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunt- 



248 a:be Sftetcb^JSooft 

ing fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country 
gathering descried this well-known crest at a 
distance, whisking about among a squad of 
hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. 
Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing 
along past the farm-houses at midnight, with 
whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
sacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their 
sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry- 
scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim : 
^' Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!'* 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mix- 
ture of awe, admiration, and good-will ; and 
when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, 
occurred in the vicinity, always shook their 
heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the 
bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time sin- 
gled out the blooming Katrina for the object of 
his uncouth gallantries ; and though his amo- 
rous toyings were something like the gentle 
caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
whispered that she did not altogether discour- 
age his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no 
inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; inso- 
much that, when his horse was seen tied to Van 
Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign 
that his master was courting, or, as it is termed. 



Zbc %egcni> of Sleepi^ Ibollow 249 

'* sparking," within, all other suitors passed 
by in despair, and carried the war into other 
quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom 
Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering 
all things, a stouter man than he would have 
shnink from the competition, and a wiser man 
would have despaired. He had, however, a 
happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in 
his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a sup- 
plejack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, 
he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath 
the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was 
away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his 
head as high, as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his 
rival would have been madness, for he was not 
a man to be thwarted in his amours any more 
than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his 
character of singing-master, he had made fre- 
quent visits at the farm-house ; not that he had 
any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome 
interference of parents, which is so often a 
stumbling-block in the path of lovers. But Van 
Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like 
a reasonable man and an excellent father, let 



250 XLbc Shetcb^JBooh 

her have her way in every thing. His notable 
little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to 
her housekeeping and manage her poultry ; 
for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are 
foolish things, and must be looked after, but 
girls can take care of themselves. Thus while 
the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied 
her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, 
honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe 
at the other, watching the achievements of a 
little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword 
in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean- 
time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
daughter by the side of the spring under the 
great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight — 
that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 
I profess not to know how women's hearts are 
wooed and won. To me they have always been 
matters of ridicule and admiration. Some seem 
to have but one vulnerable point, or door of ac- 
cess, while others have a thousand avenues, and 
may be captured in a thousand different ways. 
It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, 
but a still greater proof of generalship to main- 
tain possession of the latter, for the man must 
battle for his fortress at every door and window. 
He who wins a thousand common hearts is 
therefore entitled to some renown, but he who 



trbe %cgcnt> of Sleepy IboUow 251 

keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a co- 
quette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was 
not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; 
and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his 
advances, the interests of the former evidently 
declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied 
at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly 
feud gradually arose between him and the pre- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in 
his nature, would fain have carried matters to 
open warfare, and have settled their preten- 
sions to the lady according to the mode of those 
most concise and simple reasoners, the knights- 
errant of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod 
was too conscious of the superior might of his 
adversary to enter the lists against him : he had 
overheard a boast of Bones, that he would 
** double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a 
shelf of his own school-house," and he was too 
wary to give him an opportunity. There was 
something extremely provoking in this obsti- 
nately pacific system ; it left Brom no alterna- 
tive but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boor ^ 
ish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod 
became the object of whimsical persecution to 
Bones and his gang of rough riders. They har- 
ried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out 



^5^ ^be Sfeetcb=SSook 

his singing-scliool, by stopping up the chim- 
ney ; broke into the school-house at night, in 
spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and 
window-stakes, and turned every thing topsy- 
turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to 
think all the witches in the country held their 
meetings there. But what was still more an- 
no3dng, Brom took opportunities of turning him 
into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and 
had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine 
in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced 
as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in psal- 
mody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, 
without producing any material effect on the 
relative situation of the contending powers. 
On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pen- 
sive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool 
whence he usually watched all the concerns of 
his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed 
a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the 
birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind 
the throne, a constant terror to evil-doers ; 
while on the desk before him might be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited 
weapons, detected upon the persons of idle ur- 
chins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, 
whirligigs, fly-cages, aud whole legions of ram- 
pant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there 



trbe %CQcni> of Steeps IboUow 253 

had been some appalling act of justice recently 
inflicted, for liis scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind 
them with one eye kept upon the master, and a 
kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout 
the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted 
by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth 
jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment 
of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted 
on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, 
which he managed with a rope by way of hal- 
ter. He came clattering up to the school door 
with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
making or *' quilting frolic," to be held that 
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having 
delivered his message with that air of impor- 
tance, and effort at fine language, which a negro 
is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, 
he dashed over the brook, and was seen scam- 
pering away up the Hollow, full of the im- 
portance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle aud hubbub in the late 
quiet school-room. The scholars were hurried 
through their lessons, without stopping at 
trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy 
had a smart application now and then in the 
rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over 
a tall word. Books were flung aside without 



^54 tTbe SFietcbs:JBook 

being put away on tlie shelves, inkstands were 
overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before 
the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the 
green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an ex- 
tra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbish- 
ing up his best and indeed only suit of rusty 
black, and arranging his looks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the 
school-house. That he might make his appear- 
ance before his mistress in the true style of a 
cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer 
with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old 
Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, 
and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like 
a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it 
is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic 
story, give some account of the looks and equip- 
ments of my hero and his steed. The animal 
he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, 
that had outlived almost every thing but his 
viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with 
a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his 
rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was 
glaring and spectral ; but the other had the 
gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must 



trbe %cgcni> of Sleepi^ IboUow 255 

have liad fire and mettle in his day, if we 
may judge from the name he bore of Gun- 
powder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed 
of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who 
was a furious rider, and had infused, very prob- 
ably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; 
for, old and broken-down as he looked, there 
was more of the lurking devil in him than in 
any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. 
He rode with short stirrups, which brought his 
knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; 
his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; 
he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, 
like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the 
motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping 
of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on 
the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of 
forehead might be called ; and the skirts of his 
black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's 
tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and 
his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of 
Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such 
an apparition as is seldom to be met with in 
broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, 
the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore 
that rich and golden livery which we always 
associate with the idea of abundance. The for- 



256 XLbc Sketcbs=J8ooK 

ests had put on their sober brown and yellow, 
while some trees of the tenderer kind had been 
nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild 
ducks began to make their appearance high in 
the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be 
heard from the groves of beech and hickory 
nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at 
intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell 
banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, they 
fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to 
bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very 
profusion and variety around them. There was 
the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of 
stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous 
notes ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
sable clouds ; and the golden-winged wood- 
pecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black 
gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar- 
bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt 
tail, and its little montero cap of feathers ; and 
the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay 
light-blue coat and white under-clothes, scream- 
ing and chattering, nodding and bobbing and 
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms 
with every songster af the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his 
eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary 



XLbc XegenD oV Sleepy IboUow 257 

abundance, ranged with delight over the treas- 
ures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples : some hanging in oppres- 
sive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market; others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian 
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their 
leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their 
fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample 
prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he 
beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his 
mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and 
garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate 
little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet 
thoughts and '^sugared suppositions," he jour- 
neyed along the sides of a range of hills which 
look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of 
the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide 
bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle 
undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
^hadow of the distant mountain. A few amber 



258 ^be SRetcb==JSook 

clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of 
air to move them. The horizon was of a fine 
golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple-green, and from that into the deep blue 
of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on 
the woody crests of the precipices that over- 
hung some parts of the river, giving greater 
depth to the dark-gray and purple of their 
rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the dis- 
tance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her 
sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as 
the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still 
water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended 
in the air. 

It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived 
at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he 
found thronged with the pride and flower of the 
adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern- 
faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, 
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent 
pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little 
dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted 
shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors 
and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hang- 
ing on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as 
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a 
straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white 
frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The 
sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of 



XLbc XegenD of Sleepi^ Ibollow 259 

stupendous brass buttons, and their bair gener- 
ally queued in the fashion of the times, espe- 
cially if they could procure an eel-skin for the 
purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the 
country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener 
of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the 
scene, having come to the gathering on his 
favorite steed. Daredevil, a creature, like him- 
self, full of mettle and mischief, and which no 
one but himself could manage. He was, in 
fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given 
to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in 
constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable 
well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world 
of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze 
of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of 
Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of 
red and white ; but the ample charms of a gen- 
uine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous 
time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of 
cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, 
known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! 
There was the doughty doughnut, the tenderer 
oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling kruller ; 
sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger-cakes and 
honey-cakes, and the whole family of cakes, 



26o Zhc Slftetcb:=:fi3ook 

And tlien there were apple-pies and peach-pies 
and pumpkin-pies ; besides slices of ham and 
smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes 
of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and 
quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk 
and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, 
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with 
the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of 
vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the mark ! 
I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with 
my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in 
so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample 
justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose 
heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled 
with good cheer ; and whose spirits rose with 
eating as some men's do with drink. He could 
not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him 
as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility 
that he might one day be lord of all this scene 
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. 
Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back 
upon the old school-house ; snap his fingers in 
the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other 
niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant peda- 
gogue out-of-doors that should dare to call him 
comrade ! 



Zbc XegenD ot Sleepy Ibollow 261 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among 
his guests with a face dilated with content and 
good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest- 
moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shake of the 
hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and 
a pressing invitation to **fall to, and help them- 
selves." 

And now the sound of the music from the 
common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. 
The musician was an old gray-headed negro, 
who had been the itinerant orchestra of the 
neighborhood for more than half a century. His 
instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
The greater part of the time he scraped on two 
or three strings, accompanying every move- 
ment of the bow with a motion of the head ; 
bowing almost to the ground, and stamping 
with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to 
start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as 
much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, 
not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have 
seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and 
clattering about the room, you would have 
thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron 
of the dance, was figuring before you in person. 
He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who, 
having gathered^ of all ages and sizes^ from the 



262 tibe Sketcb=J5ooft 

farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a 
pyramid of shining black faces at every door 
and window, gazing with delight at the scene, 
rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grin- 
ning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could 
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than ani- 
mated and joyous ? the lady of his heart was his 
partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom 
Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, 
sat brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was 
attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with 
old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the 
piazza, gossiping over former times, and draw- 
ing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am 
speaking, was one of those highly favored places 
which abound with chronicle and great men. 
The British and American line had run near it 
during the war; it had, therefore, been the 
scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, 
cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each 
story-teller to dress up his tale with a little be- 
coming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his 
recollection, to make himself the hero of every 
exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a 



XLbc %cgcnt> of Sleepi^ Ibollow 263 

large blue-bearded Dutchman, wbo bad nearly 
taken a British frigate with an old iron nine- 
pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his 
gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there 
was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men- 
tioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being 
an excellent master of defence, parried a mus- 
ket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he 
absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and 
glance off at the hilt ; in proof of which he was 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the 
hilt a little bent. There were several more that 
had been equally great in the field, not one 
of whom but was persuaded that he had a con- 
siderable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of 
ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The 
neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of 
the kind. lyocal tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered long-settled retreats ; but 
are trampled underfoot by the shifting throng 
that forms the population of most of our coun- 
try places. Besides, there is no encourage- 
ment for ghosts in most of our villages, for they 
have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, 
and turn themselves in their graves before their 
surviving friends have travelled away from the 



264 Zbc Sketcbs:jl5ook 

neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at 
night to walk their rounds, they have no 
acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps 
the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts, ex- 
cept in our long-established Dutch communities. 
The immediate cause, however, of the preva- 
lence of supernatural stories in these parts was 
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hol- 
low. There was a contagion in the very air 
that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed 
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies in- 
fecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy 
Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and 
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were 
told about funeral trains, and mourning cries 
and wailings heard and seen about the great 
tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was 
taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. 
Some mention was made also of the woman in 
white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 
nights before a storm, having perished there in 
the snow. The chief part of the stories, how- 
ever, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy 
Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been 
heard several times of late, patrolling the 
country ; and, it was said, tethered his horse 
nightly among the graves in the churchyard, 



trbe %cgcnt> of Sleepi^ Ibollow 265 

The sequestered situation of this church 
seems always to have made it a favorite haunt 
of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, sur- 
rounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity 
beaming through the shades of retirement. A 
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water, bordered by high trees, between 
which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of 
the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
quietly, one would think that there at least the 
dead might rest in peace. On one side of the 
church extends a wide woody dell, along which 
raves a large brook among broken rocks and 
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part 
of the stream, not far from the church, was 
formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road 
that led to it, and the bridge itself were thickly 
shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it, even in the daytime, but occa- 
sioned a fearful darkness at night. This was 
one of the favorite haunts of the headless horse- 
man ; and the place where he was most fre- 
quently encountered. The tale was told of old 
Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, 
how he met the horseman returning from his 
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to 



266 trbe Shetcb*J8ook 

get up behind him ; how they galloped over 
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until 
they reached the bridge ; when the horseman 
suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over 
the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a 
thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, 
who made light of the galloping Hessian as an 
arrant jockey. Reaffirmed that, on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing 
Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight 
trooper ; that he had offered to race with him 
for a bowl of punch, and should have won it 
too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hol- 
low, but, just as they came to the church-bridge, 
the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of 
fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone 
with which men talk in the dark, the counte- 
nances of the listeners only now and then re- 
ceiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, 
sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid 
them in kind with large extracts from his inval- 
uable author. Cotton Mather, and added many 
marvellous events that had taken place in his 
native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which he had seen in his nightly walks about 
Sleepy Hollow. 



the Xe^enb of Sleeve IboUow 267 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in their 
wagons, and were heard for some time rattling 
along the hollow roads, and over the distant 
hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pil- 
lions behind their favorite swains, and their 
light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter 
of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, 
sounding fainter and fainter until they gradu- 
ally died away — and the late scene of noise and 
frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only 
lingered behind, according to the custom of 
country lovers, to have a tite-a-tite with the 
heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the 
high road to success. What passed at this 
interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I 
do not know. Something, however, I fear me, 
must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied 
forth after no very great interval, with an air 
quite desolate and chop-fallen. Oh, these 
women ! these women ! Could that girl have 
been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? 
Was her encouragement of the poor peda- 
gogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of 
his rival? Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it 
suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air 
of one who had been sacking a hen-roost 
rather than a fair lady's heart. Without look- 
ing to the right or left to notice the scene of 



268 XLbc Sketcb^JBooft 

rural wealth on which he had so often gloated, 
he went straight to the stable, and with several 
hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most 
uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of 
mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys 
of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that 
Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued 
his travel homewards, along the sides of the 
lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and 
which he had traversed so cheerily in the after- 
noon. The hour was as dismal as himself Far 
below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky 
and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 
there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at 
anchor under the land. In the dead hush of 
midnight he could even hear the barking of the 
watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hud- 
son ; but it was so vague and faint as only to 
give an idea of his distance from this faithful 
companion of man. Now and then, too, the 
long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally 
awakened, would sound far, far off, from some 
farm-house away among the hills — but it was 
like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of 
life occurred near him, but occasionally the 
melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighbor- 



trbe %CQcnt> of Sleepy IboUow 269 

ing marsli, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of gbosts and goblins that he 
had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding 
upon his recollection. The night grew darker 
and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in 
the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid 
them from his sight. He had never felt so 
lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap- 
proaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In 
the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip- 
tree, which towered like a giant above all the 
other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a 
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and 
fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordi- 
nary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, 
and rising again into the air. It was connected 
with the tragical stor^^ of the unfortunate Andrd, 
who had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was 
universally known by the name of Major An- 
dre's tree. The common people regarded it 
with a mixture of respect and superstition, 
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill- 
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 
strange sights and doleful lamentations told 
concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he 
began to whistle : he thought his whistle was 



270 Zbc Sftetcb==aSook 

answered, — it was but a blast sweeping sharply 
through the dry branches. As he approached a 
little nearer, he thought he saw something 
white, hanging in the midst of the tree, — he 
paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking 
more narrowly, perceived that it was a place 
where the tree had been scathed by lightning, 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
heard a groan, — his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle : it was but the 
rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as 
they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay 
before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a 
small brook crossed the road, and ran into a 
marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by the 
name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, 
laid side by side, served for a bridge over this 
stream. On that side of the road where the 
brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and 
chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, 
threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial. It was at this 
identical spot that the unfortunate Andr^ was 
captured, and under the covert of those chest- 
nuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen con- 
cealed who surprised him. This has ever since 
been considered a haunted stream, and fearful 



trbe XegenD of Sleepi^ Ibollow 271 

are tlie feelings of the school-boy who has to 
pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began 
to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his 
resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks 
in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across 
the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the 
perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, 
whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the 
reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with 
the contrary foot ; it was all in vain ; his steed 
started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to 
the opposite side of the road into a thicket of 
brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster 
now bestowed both whip and heel upon the 
starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed 
forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a 
stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that 
had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his 
head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by 
the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear 
of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, 
on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- 
thing huge, misshapen, black, and towering. 
It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the 
gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to 
spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose 



272 ^be Sketcbs^JBoofe 

upon his head with terror. What was to be 
done ? To turn and fly was now too late ; and 
besides, what chance was there of escaping 
ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride 
upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, 
therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in 
stammering accents : *'Who are you?'* He 
received no reply. He repeated his demand in 
a still more agitated voice. Still there was no 
answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of 
the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his 
eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a 
psalm-tune. Just then the shadowy object of 
alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble 
and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the 
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, 
yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to 
be a horseman of large dimensions, and mount- 
ed on a black horse of powerful frame. He 
made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging 
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who 
had now got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange 
midnight companion, and bethought himself of 
the adventure of Brom Bones with the gallop- 
ing Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however. 



XLbc %CQcn^ ot Sleepi2 IboUow 273 

quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag 
behind, — the other did the same. His heart 
began to sink within him ; he endeavored to 
resume his psalm-tune, but his parched tongue 
clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not 
utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious 
companion, that was mysterious and appalling. 
It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mount- 
ing a rising ground, which brought the figure of 
his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, 
gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Icha- 
bod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he 
was headless ! — ^but his horror was still more in- 
creased, on observing that the head, which 
should have rested on his shoulders, was carried 
before him an the pommel of the saddle : his 
terror rose to desperation ; he rained a shower 
of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, 
by a sudden movement, to give his companion 
the slip, — but the spectre started full jump with 
him. Away then they dashed, through thick 
and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod' s flimsy garments flut- 
tered in the air, as he stretched his long lank 
body away over his horse's head, in the eager- 
ness of his flight. 
They had now reached the road which turns 



274 ^be Sketcb=J3ook 

off to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, wlio 
seemed possessed with a demon, instead of 
keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and 
plunged downhill to the left. This road leads 
through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees, for 
about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the 
bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond 
swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his 
unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the 
chase ; but just as he had got half way through 
the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, 
and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized 
it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it 
firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save 
himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the 
neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he 
heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's 
wrath passed across his mind — for it was his 
Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty 
fears ; the goblin was hard on his haunches ; 
and (unskilful rider that he was !) he had much 
ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping 
on one side, sometimes on another, and some- 
times jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
backbone, with a violence that he verily feared 
would cleave him asunder. 



Zbc XegenD ot Sleepi^ Ibollow 275 

An opening in the trees now cheered him 
with the hopes that the church bridge was at 
hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star 
in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church 
dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 
recollected the place where Brom Bones' 
ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can 
but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, '*I 
am safe." Just then he heard the black steed 
panting and blowing close behind him ; he even 
fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered over the 
resounding planks ; he gained the opposite 
side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to 
see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 
then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, 
and in the very act of hurling his head at him. 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible mis- 
sile, but too late. It encountered his cranium 
with a tremendous crash, — ^he was tumbled 
headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the 
black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like 
a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found 
without his saddle, and with the bridle under 
his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his mas- 



276 Zbc SF^etcb^sJBook 

ter's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- 
ance at breakfast ; — dinner-hour came, but no 
Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper 
now began to feel some uneasiness about the 
fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An in- 
quiry was set on foot, and after diligent investi- 
gation they came upon his traces. In one part 
of the road leading to the church was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of 
horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and 
evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
part of the brook, where the water ran deep and 
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate 
Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pump- 
kin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans 
Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, ex- 
amined the bundle which contained all his 
worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts 
and a half; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or 
two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of cordu- 
roy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of 
psalm-tunes, full of dogs' ears ; and a broken 
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of 
the school-house, they belonged to the com- 



XLbc %CQcn^ of Sleepy Ibollow 277 

munity, excepting Cotton Mather's *^ History 
of Witchcraft," a *'New England Almanac," 
and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in 
which last was a sheet of foolscap much scrib- 
bled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to 
make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of 
Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic 
scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames 
by Hans Van Ripper ; who from that time for- 
ward determined to send his children no more 
to school ; observing that he never knew any 
good come of this same reading and writing. 
Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, 
and he had received his quarter's pay but a day 
or two before, he must have had about his per- 
son at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much specula- 
tion at the church on the following Sunday. 
Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in 
the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot 
where the hat and pumpkin had been found. 
The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind ; and 
when they had diligently considered them all, 
and compared them with the symptoms of the 
present case, they shook their heads, and came 
to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
off by the galloping Hessian. As he w^as a 
bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled 



278 XLbc SketcbssJSooU 

his head any more about him. The school was 
removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, 
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down 
to New York on a visit several years after, and 
from whom this account of the ghostly adven- 
ture was received, brought home the intelli- 
gence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that 
he had left the neighborhood, partly through 
fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and 
partly in mortification at having been suddenly 
dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed 
his quarters to a distant part of the country; 
had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned 
politician, electioneered, written for the news- 
papers, and finally had been made a justice of 
the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who 
shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted 
the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, 
was observed to look exceedingly knowing when- 
ever the story of Ichabod was related, and 
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention 
of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect 
that he knew more about the matter than he 
chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the 
best judges of these matters, maintain to this 
day that Ichabod was spirited away by super- 



Zhc %CQcn^ of Sleepi2 Ibollow 279 

natural means ; and it is a favbrite story often 
told about the neighborhood round the winter- 
evening fire. The bridge became more than 
ever an object of superstitious awe, and that 
may be the reason why the road has been 
altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The 
school-house, being deserted, soon fell to de- 
cay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the 
plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still sum- 
mer evening, has often fancied his voice at 
a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm-tune 
among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise 
words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meet- 
ing of the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were 
present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. 
The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old 
fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous 
face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, 
— ^he made such efforts to be entertaining. "When his 
story was concluded, there was much laughter and ap- 
probation, particularly from two or three deputy alder- 
men, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, 
with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and 
rather severe face throughout ; now and then folding his 
arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the 



28o ^be snetcb=JBook 

floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was 
one of your wary men, who never laugh, but on good 
grounds — when they have reason and the law on their 
side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on 
the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of 
the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
moral of the story, and what it went to prove ? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine 
to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a 
moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite 
deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, 
observed, that the story was intended most logically to 
prove :— 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advan- 
tages and pleasures — ^provided we will but take a joke as 
we find it : 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin 
troopers is likely to have rough riding of it. 

"E)rgo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the 
hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high prefer- 
ment in the State." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the 
ratiocination of the syllogism ; while, methought, the 
one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a 
triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this 
was very well, but still he thought the story a little on 
the extravagant— there were one or two points on which 
he had his doubts. ' 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that mat- 
ter, I don't believe one half of it myself." 

D. K. 




L'KNVOY.^ 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 

IN concluding a second volume of the ^* Sketch- 
Book,'* the author cannot but express his 
deep sense of the indulgence with which his 
first has been received, and of the liberal dis- 
position that has been evinced to treat him with 
kindness as a stranger. Kven the critics, what- 
ever may be said of them by others, he has 
found to be a singularly gentle and good-na- 
tured race ; it is true that each has in turn 
objected to some one or two articles, and that 
these individual exceptions, taken in the aggre- 
gate, would amount almost to a total condemna- 
tion of his work ; but then he has been consoled 
by observing, that what one has particularly 
censured, another has as particularly praised ; 

* Closing the second volume of the I^ondon edition. 



282 tCbe Sketcbs^JSSook 

and thus, the encomiums being set off against 
the objections, he finds his work, upon the 
whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting 
much of this kind favor by not following the 
counsel that has been liberally bestowed upon 
him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is 
given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he 
should go astray. He can only say, in his vindi- 
cation, that he faithfully determined, for a time, 
to govern himself in his second volume by the 
opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon 
brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent 
counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the 
ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third 
assured him that he was tolerable at descrip- 
tion, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty 
knack at turning a story, and was really enter- 
taining when in a pensive mood, but was griev- 
ously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess 
a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, 
who each in turn closed some particular path, 
but left him all the world beside to range 
in, he found that to follow all their counsels, 
would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained 
for a time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at 
once, the thought struck him to ramble on 



X'Envog 283 

as lie had begun ; that his work being miscel- 
laneous, and written for different humors, it 
could not be expected that any one would be 
pleased with the whole ; but that if it should 
contain something to suit each reader, his end 
would be completely answered. Few guests sit 
down to a varied table with an equal appetite 
for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a 
roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in 
utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate the 
ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; and a 
fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with 
sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks, here 
and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each 
article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst 
this variety of appetite, seldom does a dish go 
away from the table without being tasted and 
relished by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve 
up this second volume in the same heterogeneous 
way with his first ; simply requesting the reader 
if he should find here and there something to 
please him, to rest assured that it was written 
expressly for intelligent readers like himself; 
but entreating him, should he find any thing to 
dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles 
which the author has been obliged to write for 
readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — ^The author is conscious of the 



2^4 ttbe SfietcbsJSoofe 

numerous faults and imperfections of his work ; 
and well aware how little he is disciplined and 
accomplished in the arts of authorship. His 
deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence 
arising from his peculiar situation. He finds 
himself writing in a strange land, and appear- 
ing before a public which he has been accus- 
tomed, from childhood, to regard with the high- 
est feelings of awe and reverence. He is full 
of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet 
finds that very solicitude continually embar- 
rassing his powers, and depriving him of that 
ease and confidence which are necessary to suc- 
cessful exertion. Still the kindness with which 
he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping 
that in time he may acquire a steadier footing ; 
and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half 
shrinking, surprised at his own good for- 
tune, and wondering at his own temerity. 




APPENDIX. 
N01^KS CONCERNING WES^MINSl^KR ABBEY. 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, 
under the dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of bar- 
barism and idolatry, Pope Gregory the Great, struck with 
the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale 
in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the 
gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He 
was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, King 
of Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, 
had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter 
of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipula- 
tion the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in 
matters of religious faith. He forthwith despatched Au- 
gustine, a Roman monk, with forty associates, to the 
court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the conversion 
of the king, and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
island. 

Ethelbert received them warmly, and held a confer- 
ence in the open air ; being distrustful of foreign priest- 
craft, and fearful of spells and magic. They ultimately 
succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his 
wife ; the conversion of the king of course produced the 
conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of 
Augustine were rewarded by his being made Archbishop 



286 XLbc Sketcb^J^ook 

of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over 
all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or 
Sebert, King of the E)ast Saxons, a nephew of i^thelbert. 
He reigned at lyondon, of which Mellitus, one of the 
Roman monks who had come over with Augustine, was 
made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monas- 
tery by the river-side to the west of the city, on the ruins 
of a temple of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the 
present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great preparations 
were made for the consecration of the church, which 
was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the 
appointed day Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great 
pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On ap- 
proaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who 
informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the 
ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, 
when the fisherman went on to relate, that the night be- 
fore, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter 
appeared to him, and told him that he intended to con- 
secrate the church himself, that very night. The 
apostle accordingly went into the church, which sud- 
denly became illuminated. The ceremony was per- 
formed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of 
heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense. After 
this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered the 
fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a miracu- 
lous draught of fishes ; one of which he was commanded 
to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the 
apostle had relieved him from the necessity of consecrat- 
ing the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required 
confirmation of the fisherman's tale. He opened the 
church doors, and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy 
water, oil sprinkled in various places, and various other 



%};>^cnbii 287 



traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any linger- 
ing doubts, they were completely removed on the fisher- 
man's producing the identical fish which he had been 
ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist this 
would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The 
good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church 
had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so 
he reverently abstained from proceeding further in the 
business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why 
icing Kdward the Confessor chose this place as the site 
of a religious house which he meant to endow. He 
pulled down the old church and built another in its 
place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a 
magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if 
not a reconstruction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to 
assume its present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that 
m.onarch turning the monks away, and seizing upon the 
revenues. 



REI.ICS OI^ KDWARD THEJ CONI^KSSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the 
choristers of the cathedral, who appears to have been 
the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, giving an account of 
his rummaging among the bones of EJdward the Confes- 
sor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre up- 
wards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the 
crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. 
During eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, 
it had been a common tradition, he says, among his 
brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the 
abbey, that the body of King E)dward was deposited in a 
kind of chest or coffin, which was indistinctly seen in the 



288 XLbc S\{ctcb^moo\{ 

upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None 
of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a 
nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify 
his curiosity , mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder, 
and found it to be made of wood, apparently very strong 
and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding 
used in the coronation of James II., the coffin was found 
to be broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made, 
through accident, by the workmen. No one ventured, 
however, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal 
dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance 
came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He 
forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two 
friends, of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspect- 
ing the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to 
the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in 
the lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just 
in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and 
groping among the bones, he drew from underneath the 
shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed 
to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed 
to his inquisitive friends, who were equally surprised 
with himself. 

"At the time," says he, "when I took the cross and 
chain out of the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and 
viewed it, being very sound and firm, with the upper and 
nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold 
above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, sur- 
rounding the temples. There were also in the coffin 
white linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked 
indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put thereto 
showed it was wellnigh perished. There were all his 
bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to 
human pride than the skull of E^dward the Confessor 



BppenMj 289 



thus irreverently pulled about in its coffin by a prying 
choristerj and brought to grin face to face with him 
through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the 
crucifix and chain back again into the coffin, and sought 
the dean, to apprise him of his discovery. The dean not 
being accessible at the time, and fearing that the " holy 
treasure ' ' might be taken away by other hands, he got a 
brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine about 
two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence again 
drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on 
his knees to King James. The king subsequently had 
the old coffin inclosed in a new one of great strength : 
"each plank being two inches thick and cramped to- 
gether with large iron wedges, where it now remains 
(1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse 
might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin 
a description of it in modern times. " The solitary and 
forlorn shrine, ' ' says a British writer, * ' now stands a 
mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces of its 
sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches the 
rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. . . . Only 
two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top 
is much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is 
picked away in every part within reach, only the lozen- 
ges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the 
•rich marble remain." — Malcom, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT AI,I,UDKD TO 
IN THE SKETCH. 

Here lyes the lyoyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duch- 
ess his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her 
name was Margaret I^ucas, youngest sister to the I^ord 



290 iZbc Sketcb:=:©ooR 

lyucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the brothers 
were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess 
was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many 
Bookes do well testify ; she was a most virtuous, and 
loving, and careful wife, and was with her lord all the 
time of his banishment and miseries, and when he came 
home, never parted from him in his solitary retirements. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the ser- 
vice in the afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. 
The effect is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while 
the main body of the cathedral and the transepts are in 
profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses 
of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the 
open slats and canopies ; the partial illumination makes 
enormous shadows from columns and screens, and dart- 
ing into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there 
upon a sepulchral decoration or monumental effigy. 
The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the 
scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his 
dwelling, in the old conventual part of the pile, by the 
boys of the choir, in their white dresses, bearing tapers, 
and the procession passes through the abbey and along 
the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and 
grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in 
darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called 
the Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted 
passage catches a distant view of a white marble figure 
reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by 
a gas-light has quite a spectral efiect. It is a mural 
monument of one of the Pultneys. 



